Kristen Robinette - Hell's Belles

“My partner has his condo on the market.” Jack shifted uncomfortably, as though he wanted to say more but then decided against it. “As for me, I still need to look around, check out the local real estate.”

Mattie managed to babble for a solid three minutes, offering advice as though Jack hadn’t lived here for the first twenty years of his life. All the while her brain tried to process their new relationship, stalling while she fought for balance. Her old Jack fantasy was deteriorating somewhere in a ditch. That was okay: a new friendship was budding. She swallowed hard and forced herself to stop talking.

“Thanks.” Jack nodded, an amused expression on his face. “I’ll, uh, try and remember all that.”

Humor the crazy babbling lady. She wanted to die.

“So what about dinner tomorrow night? Pick you up at seven?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Good.” He finally raised his head, looking over her shoulder. “I should go now.” He frowned. “But before I do, I have something to ask you.”

She frowned. “What’s that?”

He grasped her shoulders and gently turned her to face the Crown Vic. “Is this your car?”

“Uh, yes.” She met his eyes. “Why?”

He shook his head in mock distress. “Because I spent fifteen years of detective work developing a theory about vehicles and their drivers.”

“And?”

“And you just blew it.”

Mattie grinned, intrigued. “How’s that?”

Jack traced his thumb over his jawline. “In my opinion, most people are basically uncomfortable in their own skin.”

She felt her eyes go round with surprise. All this time Mattie had thought it was just her.

“That being the case, my theory is that people feel the need to wrap themselves in a shell. And that shell is a vehicle. People therefore choose a vehicle based on who they feel they are inside.”

Mattie looked at the Crown Vic. It was plain, ugly as sin, and its paint was crackling like the makeup of an old woman. Tears welled in her eyes.

But when she looked up at Jack, she found his gaze trailing over her bare legs. She watched in amazement as he paused at her breasts before meeting her eyes. She shivered.

“You, Mattie Harold—” he lowered his head to whisper in her ear “are not a beat-up Crown Vic.” He sighed and little shivers danced across her bare shoulders. “You’re a red Mustang. Convertible.”

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