A Match Made in Heaven?

“I’ll get the keys to the truck, Belen.”

“Uh, uh.” He pulled the keys from his pocket and dangled them from his fingers, out of reach. “You can’t go driving a tow truck on the freeway, Sam.”

“Why not?” She plopped the near empty mug on the table, liquid sloshing upward but not spilling.

“I’m exchanging it tomorrow for a more practical vehicle.”

“Fine. I’ll take your new truck rental.”

He chuckled, but the sound lacked humor. “Don’t think so.”

“I’ll call and get the Chevy fixed.” She tilted her chin, her gaze challenging.

Folding his arms across his broad chest, he met her look and cocked a brow.

“No phone,” she said, snapping her fingers and shaking her head, her body language all a bristle.

“That’s right.”

“I’ll walk.” She gripped the edge of the table, knots in the wood bumping against her fingers, and pushed herself up. Grabbing the mug from the table, she waddled across the floor and plunked it in the sink.

Mere inches separated them. The tension was a tangible force between them.

She wished she could lay her head on his shoulder and let all their differences wash away. But she couldn’t, not until she knew for certain what was on his agenda. She walked back to the table and collected the leftover Saltines.

Johnny straightened to his full six-foot frame and flicked his gaze over her full condition. “Two miles to the main road, Sam.”

She glanced around, debating what to do with the cracker packs in her hand. “A little gentle exercise—”

“Not if I can help it.”

A package of crackers hurled through the air.

He raised a hand and caught it.

“I will leave here, Belen. I will find a way. I will not live in this pigsty nor bring up my baby in this hovel.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, muzzling sobs.