Page 55 of Crash Course
Sickness rolled in her stomach, the nastiness crawling into her throat. She bent forward and breathed through it.Just breathe. That’s all she needed to do.
Cruz’s hand rested on her back. "Hey, hey, hey. What’s going on? You okay?"
She shook her head. "I don’t know. This is . . ."
She needed to get herself together. Put on her attorney hat and think. She bolted upright, sat back and Cruz slid his hand to her shoulder, leaving it there and giving her a gentle squeeze.
"You’re okay," he said. "Take a breath."
Following his advice, she inhaled, drawing in fresh oxygen and the scent of his truck. That woodsy, soapy smell of Cruz. She exhaled and repeated the process, over and over, until her system settled down.
Yes. That felt better. She turned sideways in her seat, peered into his eyes that somehow offered comfort, not pity. Strong, steady comfort.
Goodness, he affected her in ways she’d never experienced. Ways that made her feel open and . . . vulnerable.
And not in a bad way.
"What are you thinking?" Cruz asked.
"I’m worried."
"About?"
"Make a list. At the top would be my father’s company wanting to buy property where a little girl has cancer. Worse, I’m worried that he lied to me about what he knows."
"Only one way to find out."
"Yes. Let’s get those soil samples."
By 2:00,after tromping through dirt and grabbing a dozen samples from three farms—no way to sneak onto the daycare property—without getting caught, Cilla and Cruz sat at a table at a roadside joint on the edge of town. Remnants of the Mighty Joe, a pulled pork sandwich big enough to feed King Kong, were splayed across Cruz’s plate.
In short, the man could eat.
She pointed at the half piece of cornbread waiting for his attention. "Seriously? You’re going to leave that little bit?"
"Yep. Totally stuffed. I love this place. Food is tremendous."
"I bet a lot of the people at the plant come here."
Cilla glanced around at the mostly empty twenty tables. Not a surprise given the post-lunch hour. Maybe some folks in here right now worked for her father. None of them seemed to recognize Cilla, but that didn’t mean a thing, considering the number of people the plant employed.
When she turned back, she found Cruz eying the last bit of cornbread, but . . . alas . . . he pushed the plate away, throwing his napkin on top as if it were his final thought on the matter. Then he leaned in on his elbows and eyed her.
"Let me ask you something," he said.
"Ask away,"
In the time she’d spent with Cruz, she’d come to be fairly certain of one thing: Cruz Blackwell spoke his mind. He also didn’t shy away from asking tough questions. For someone who spent the better part of her professional life around liars, she found his honesty wildly intoxicating.
Cruz nodded. "We have samples Phin said he’d send to Kayla’s lab. Then what?"
Unsure of how to answer, Cilla shrugged. "Um, we wait for results?"
He rolled a hand. "After the results. What if they’re the same as the report you saw. What then?"
Ah. No-brainer. "Easy. I’ll tell my father he can’t buy the property."
"You’ll say you hired us and we ran our own tests?"
