When in Rome(5)

When I knock on the window, she screeches. Jumpy.

“Hey…” You? Woman? Lady currently killing the grass in my yard? “Uh…Here. This is a friend of mine on the phone. She’s going to act as my character reference so you can feel safe to get out of your car.”

The lady pulls the lever on her seat and the whole thing comes flying up. She yelps and I have to bite the inside of my cheeks. Her big eyes peer up at me through the glass, and unfortunately, there’s not enough light to figure out how I know her, but now I’m convinced I do.

She frowns. “How do you have cell service right now?”

“I don’t.” I raise the phone up so she can see it.

Her eyes drop to it and she laughs. “What is that?!”

You’d think I was holding a rare species of animal by the way she’s gaping and laughing. “It’s generally called a telephone.”

“Yes, but…” She pauses to let out another delighted laugh and the sound curls around me like a cool breeze. “Did you steal it from the museum of 1950s history? Now the mannequin with the blue gingham print dress and matching headband won’t receive her husband’s call saying he’ll be late for dinner! Oh my gosh, that cord has to be fifty feet long!”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you going to roll down your window or not, Smart Mouth?”

Her eyebrows lift. “Did you just call me…Smart Mouth?”

“Yes.” And I won’t apologize for it. I’m not trying to make friends with her or make her feel cozy—besides she insulted my phone. I love my phone. It’s a good phone.

Oddly, her face splits into a full, gorgeous smile and she laughs. It makes my stomach tighten, and my heart thump angrily. I tell them both to shut up and behave. I will not be moved by another woman passing through my town. I’m going to help her tonight because (1) it’s the right thing to do; (2) so she doesn’t die in my front yard; and (3) so I can get her the hell on her way again.

“Well, okay, then.” She cracks the window only about two inches so I can slip the phone in. Our fingers brush in the exchange and my whole body reacts to it because apparently it wasn’t listening to the threatening speech I gave it a minute ago. The woman whips the phone into the car and zips her window back up before I can slide a pitchfork in and impale her.

She eyes the phone warily before raising it to her ear. “Hello?”

Immediately I can tell that Mabel takes over because the woman’s eyes grow twice their size and she listens with rapt attention. Five minutes later, beads of sweat are rolling down the back of my neck as I lean with folded arms against the hood of her car, waiting for Smart Mouth to finish laughing her ass off with Mabel.

“He didn’t!” she says practically howling and now I know it’s time to take the phone back. I go to her door, knocking against her window. “Time’s up. Are you getting out or not?”

She holds up a finger to me and finishes with Mabel. “Uh-huh…uh-huh…yeah. Okay, it was great talking with you, too!”

I have to back up when, surprise, surprise, the woman opens the car door and steps out, handing me back my phone. At her full height, she comes to my chin, but her messy brunette bun stands to about the top of my head. I don’t want to admit it, but she’s cute—classy. She’s wearing a navy-and-white-striped T-shirt tucked into white, old-timey-looking shorts. They’re the kind that climb high on her petite waist, hug the soft curve of her hips, and cut off high on her thighs. She belongs on a sailboat in a black-and-white photo—not from around here, that’s for damn sure. She’ll be gone in the blink of an eye, so there’s no use letting myself admire her looks.

She turns her face up to me, but her gaze bounces nervously back and forth between me and my house. “Your friend, Mrs. Mabel, gave you a glowing recommendation, Noah Walker.” She says my name with a greedy emphasis, gloating that she knows my name but I don’t know hers.

“Super, I’m so relieved.” My tone is the Sahara Desert. I cross my arms. “And you are?”

Whatever ease she was starting to feel vanishes, and she takes one large step away, anxious to crawl right back into that death trap. “Why do you need to know my name?”

“Mostly so I can know who to charge for my grass seed bill.” I don’t mean for it to come off as friendly or jokey, but she seems to take it that way.

She smiles and relaxes again. I’m not so sure I want her to feel relaxed. In fact, I have a strong urge to tell her not to get comfy at all.

“Tell you what,” she says with a sparkling smile of camaraderie that I don’t return. “I’ll leave some cash on the counter for you in the morning.” In the gaping silence that follows her statement, I lift an eyebrow and she finally hears what she’s just said. “Oh! No. I didn’t mean—I don’t think you’re a…not a prostitute.” She winces. “Not to say you can’t be a prostitute if you—”

I hold up a hand. “I’ll stop you there.”

“Thank goodness,” she whispers, dropping her gaze while running her fingers over her temples. Who the hell is this woman? Why is she driving through my backwoods town in the middle of the night? She’s jumpy. She’s a nervous chatterbox, and she gives off the impression of a woman on the run.