Page 41 of Made for Mayhem

He turned toward the parking lot. “Come on. Emmy’s waiting. Junie’ll be ready to go.”

Junie. The world snapped back into focus, reminding me why I was standing here trying so hard not to unravel.

I followed him down the courthouse steps and to his truck, my heart still hammering against my ribs.

Six weeks of this.

Six weeks of trying not to stare.

Six weeks of pretending that spark didn’t exist.

Shit.

10

The highway stretched ahead of us, cutting through the Vail Valley in long ribbons as it curved alongside the Eagle River. I cracked the windows of my old truck, letting the early summer wind and the sharp scent of pine rush in. A radio station out of Glenwood Springs hummed low, classic rock filling the cab as background noise meant to break up the quiet tension.

Daisy angled toward the window, golden hair whipping loose around her face. She closed her eyes, lashes resting against her cheeks, pulling whatever peace she could from the air. And after everything she’d just revealed about her life in that courtroom, I couldn’t blame her.

So much loss.

So much hurt.

So much pain I didn’t think she showed anyone.

When her hair whipped forward again, I reached behind me, grabbed my Mayhem hat from the back seat, and dropped it onto her head. “Here.”

Her eyes flew open—blue and startled beneath the bill. I felt her gaze settle on me, heavy and searching, clocking the way I’d stepped in again without being asked.

Unfortunately, because of how our story began, she already knew this about me. I acted first. Helped first. Gave first. Then hated myself for expecting anything back.

What she didn’t know was that I couldn’t stop myself—especially not with her—even if I tried.

A careful smile tugged at her mouth, small and restrained. She pulled her hair through the snapback and twisted it into a loose ponytail. “Thanks.”

I kept my eyes locked on the road, not trusting myself to say more after the morning we’d just survived. And hell—she looked good like this. Jeans. A T-shirt. Wind-tousled hair. My hat.

Too good.

No matter how inconvenient, Daisy Winslow had burrowed under my skin the second she challenged me to Truth or Dare three years ago.

Back then, energy spilled out of her, reckless and bright—laughing too loud, dancing in the street, singing as if she dared life to keep up.

This Daisy carried herself differently. Quieter. Dimmed. Life hadn’t just worn her down; it had taken pieces and never given them back.

She turned back to the window, arms crossing over her chest, shutting me out again.

I was used to silence—I chose it often enough myself—but this one twisted something restless in my chest, the urge to do something, be something, that might pull her back from wherever she’d gone.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

Six weeks of living together was going to be a problem.

A blonde-haired, blue-eyed, impossible to ignore problem.

The radio crackled with static, then slid into Blondie’s Call Me.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Daisy’s fingers start tapping against her leg. A moment later, she sang along under her breath. Her voice sounded more cautious than I remembered, but it filled the cab anyway. When the chorus hit, she sang louder, clinging to the rhythm as if it could hold her up.