Page 122 of Crash Course
Allison glanced over at her. So much for zero interaction. Cilla considered it close enough, grabbed her purse from the table and headed for the door.
"Wait!" The young woman waiting for her order said. "You forgot your bag."
Panic raging, Cilla met Allison’s eye.What now?
Clearly understanding Cilla’s unspoken message, Allison halted, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Oh! Thank goodness!"
Bypassing Cilla, she strode to the chair. "That’s actually mine. I forgot it. I was hoping someone gave it to the barista."
Okay. Good one.Cilla rolled with it. "I’ve been sitting there for a little while. I didn’t notice it." She thunked herself on the head. "So distracted today."
"Wow," the young woman said. "That’s lucky."
And a load of crap.
Allison lifted the bag to her shoulder, gave Cilla a wide-eyed you-almost-blew-it stare. "It sure is."
The second Cruzspotted that flash of poker-straight dark hair, he fired up the truck. He’d stick to the plan and let Cilla walk around the block where he’d scoop her up on the far corner. Not that they’d done anything illegal, but she’d wanted to maintain as much privacy as possible and chances were this busy street contained more security cameras than the side street.
His phone rang. Cilla. He picked up the call. "You okay?"
"I may vomit. I’ll try to do it before I get in the truck."
Poor thing. "Walk around the corner and I’ll grab you. If you puke, you puke. The truck can be cleaned."
"I hate this," she said.
"I don’t blame you."
"Cruz, who does this to their own father?"
Guilt. A bastard he’d given in to many times. Loving people, he supposed, brought a mass of conflicting emotions and decisions.
"Someone," he said, "doing the right thing. The question you should ask is why aren’t more people doing it? Honey, you’re my fucking hero."
And he wasn’t blowing smoke up her ass. Even he, a guy who thrived in battle, wasn’t sure he’d have the stones to out his own father.
Then again, his father hadn’t poisoned an entire town.
Finally, he pulled from the spot, cruising down the street and hooking a right at the corner where Cilla’s trim frame came into view. A few other pedestrians strolled along, some window shopping, others hustling by on their way to wherever they were going.
Cilla’s long legs moved at a clip. The commuter walk, Phin called it. Not rushed, but not exactly slow either.
Easing his foot off the gas, Cruz drove by and pulled into a loading zone at the corner. He checked his passenger mirror and three seconds later, the door came open. Cilla tossed her purse on the floor, hopped in, shut the door behind her, opened the window, and stuck her head out, sucking in air.
Was she seriously going to blow chunks? Out his window?Thatmight draw attention.
"Cilla, if you’re going to puke, please don’t do it out the window. People will notice."
Clearly seeing his logic, she took one last deep breath and leaned back inside. She rested her head against the seat and squeezed her eyes closed tight enough to scrunch her face.
Checking traffic, he pulled from the curb, then reached over, grabbing her hand. "I’ve got you," he said. "Just breathe."
Silence filled the truck and not knowing what else to do, Cruz let it drag out, giving her a minute to think.
That’s what he would want. No platitudes. No talking him off a ledge.
Just silence.
