Her Secret Fling. Sarah Mayberry

about you? Why aren’t you married?”

      She smiled ruefully. Quid pro quo, indeed. “No one’s ever asked me.”

      He glanced at her, a half smile on his mouth. “That’s a cop-out.”

      She shrugged. “Maybe, but that’s all you’re going to get.”

      They lapsed into silence, even though it was her turn to ask a question.

      “We should stop for food soon. And start thinking about where we’re going to stay the night,” he said.

      They wound up at McDonald’s since it was the only thing on offer. They studied the road map as they ate, deciding on Tamworth as their destination for the evening.

      “There’ll be a decent motel there, and a few places to eat,” Jake said.

      She pushed the remains of her burger and fries away.

      “You going to eat those?” Jake asked, eyeing her fries.

      “Go nuts.”

      He polished them off then went back to the counter to order an apple pie for the road.

      She waited outside in the cold night air, looking up at the dark sky, listening to the rush of cars on the highway and marveling that she and Jake Stevens had spent several hours in a car together and no blood had been spilled.

      Yet.

      “Okay, let’s hit the road,” he said as he joined her in the parking lot.

      She glanced at him, straight into his blue eyes. They stared at each other a moment too long before she turned away. He walked ahead of her as they crossed to the car. She found herself staring at his butt. She’d always had a thing for backsides and he had a nice one. Okay—a very nice one.

       Why am I noticing Jake the Snake’s butt?

      She frowned and looked away. Must be the car equivalent of Stockholm Syndrome. At least she hoped that was what it was.

      POPPY WAS DRIVING AGAIN when they pulled into Tamworth just before eight o’clock. Apart from one small disagreement over radio stations, their unofficial cease-fire was still in effect. Jake craned his head to read the brightly illuminated signs of the various motels as they cruised Tamworth’s busy main street.

      “That place, over there,” he said, pointing to a blue-and-white neon sign in front of a brown-brick, two-story motel. “They’ve got spa baths.”

      She rolled her eyes but pulled over, since she didn’t have a better suggestion.

      “Park the car and I’ll get us some rooms,” he said.

      Before she could say anything, he was out of the car and striding toward reception.

      “Yes, sir,” she said to herself. “Three bags full, sir. Have you any wool, sir?”

      Because it would rankle too much to obey him to the letter, she joined him in reception as he was handing over his credit card to the middle-aged clerk.

      “Hang on a minute,” she said. “I’ll pay for my own room.”

      “You got the car. I’ll get this.”

      It was a perfectly reasonable argument but she opened her mouth to dispute it anyway.

      “We can argue after dinner,” he said. “You can arm wrestle me to the floor and pound me into submission.”

      “What makes you think I’m having dinner with you?”

      “Because you can’t sit in your room and eat ice cream and chips two nights in a row. You’ll get scurvy. You need vitamin C.”

      The desk clerk was watching their interplay curiously. Poppy took her room key.

      “This doesn’t mean I’m having dinner with you,” she said.

      But after she’d had a long shower and changed into fresh clothes, the sterile cleanliness of the room started to get to her. Plus she was hungry. When Jake knocked on her door ten minutes later, she pocketed her room key and stepped outside.

      “There’s a steak place up the road,” he said.

      He hadn’t doubted her for a moment, the smug bastard.

      “This is only because I’m hungry and they don’t have room service,” she said.

      “It’s all right. I didn’t think you were about to propose because you agreed to have dinner with me.”

      He was deliberately echoing her words from during their ill-fated breast discussion. She couldn’t help it—she cracked a smile.

      “You are such a smart-ass,” she said.

      “You’re no slouch yourself.”

      “No, I’m strictly amateur hour compared to you. You’re world-class.”

      They started walking toward the glowing roadside sign for Lou’s Steakhouse.

      “Now you’ve made me nervous,” he said.

      “Sure I have.”

      “You have. World-class—that’s a lot to live up to. You’ve given me performance anxiety.”

      “I bet you’ve never had performance anxiety in your life.”

      “That was before I met you.”

      She became aware that she was still smiling and slowing her steps, dawdling to prolong their short walk to the restaurant. She frowned, suddenly uneasy. She looked at him and saw that he was watching her, an arrested expression on his face. As though, like her, he’d just realized that they were enjoying each other’s company.