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“What’s wrong with my car?” I jog to catch up with him.
“It’s not a car.” He eyes it with disgust as he stops at the back bumper. “Is it even safe for this thing to be on the road anymore?”
“Don’t be a jerk.” I move around him and grab the handle of one of my bags, half rolling, half dragging it on its broken wheels.
“What year was this made?” he asks, kicking one of the tires.
“1970.” I grit my teeth. “And it’s perfectly safe. It only has 127,395 miles.”
“Only?”
“Yes, only. She’s almost fifty-five years old! Where’s your car?” I glare at him, and he turns. When he points at a car that sits low to the ground and is so sleek it looks like it could fly, I blink. “That’s yours?”
When I came out to my van a few days ago to let it run for a bit because I hadn’t driven in a while, I noticed that car. It was hard not to since it sticks out like a sore thumb among all the others in the lot that are either older, oversized SUVs or mini vans. With his eyes locked on mine, he takes a set of keys out of his pocket, and the moment he presses a button, the engine rumbles to life. I glance across the lot, then look at him, and he raises a brow.
“Whatever.” I open the sliding door that sticks slightly and start to pick up one of my bags, but he takes it from me.
“Please tell me that you haven’t slept in here,” he says, leaning into the van as he places the bag inside for me.
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Fuck me.”
“If you’re just going to be annoying, you can leave.” I attempt to take my other bag from him, but he doesn’t let it go. I let out a breath and watch him heft it into the back and on to the bed that is down—because the lock to keep it up and out of the way is busted. Not that it matters. The small stove that is built in is original and doesn’t work, and even if it did, the roof of the van is low, so I would have to squat in order to use it, and I’m just not going to do that.
“When was the last time you got an oil change and the tires checked?” he asks, ignoring my comment about him leaving.
“I plan on getting an oil change Monday on my way out of town.” I cross my arms over my chest, and he cricks his neck from side to side. “I’m not stupid, Roman.”
“I never said you’re stupid, Elora. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”
Damn my stupid heart for fluttering like it is.
“I’m safe, and I know my car isn’t as fancy or as new as yours, but I got it because I could sleep in it comfortably and because, no matter where I go or how much money I have, I will always have a roof over my head.”
I watch, fascinated, as his face softens while his jaw clenches. He lets out a breath and looks at my van, then at me. “What else do you want to bring down here today?”
“Nothing. I’ll pack the rest of my stuff Monday before I go.” I move to shut the door—or try to, but it sticks halfway, and the metal creaks when I try to force it.
“Let me do it.” He sighs, carefully moving me out of the way. Pulling the door back, he slams it shut, then looks down at me and starts to open his mouth.
I get there before him and turn back to the hotel. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.”
“I was just going to ask if you ate lunch.”
“I’m still stuffed from breakfast.”
“That was hours ago.”
“And it was a lot of food.” I nudge my shoulder into his arm. “You don’t need to take care of me, Roman.”
“Someone does,” he says so quietly I barely hear him, but I still do. And the statement is just as effective as if he yelled it at me.
8
ROMAN
45°52′55″N 123°57′34″W
