Page 90 of The Crowned Garza

Visibly annoyed, he rubs a hand across his jaw. “Get out of my car.”

With a victorious grin, I do just that and blow him a kiss. “See you later, boo boo.”

“While you’re at it, fix whatever the hell you did to your hair.”

I reach up and touch my hair. My hairdresser gave me a fresh look at the salon yesterday. Straightened and colored butter-blond balayage with temporary hair dye. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“I’m not attracted to blondes,” he replies. “I’m crazy about beguiling Italian-Jamaicans with a wild river of curly brown hair, daring hazel-brown eyes, a stubborn pout, and freckled cheekbones. Bring my fucking curls back.” He drops the handbrake. “Send photo evidence when it’s done or I won’t show up.”

With that, he hits the gas.

My heart is acting like a fool in my chest.

Sonuvabitch justhadto get the last word, didn’t he?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Always with the dramatics.”

Tillie

I WAKE UP INstrong arms carrying me up the stairs.

It’s strange how, over time, his scent has changed from lies, deceit, and duplicity, to soothing spice, log fire, and cool mint.

“You stood me up,” I grumble groggily.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I washed my hair to bring your curls back, I made us dinner, I waited...”

And fell asleep on the couch.

“Things got messy for your brothers with their mission in Rome. I couldn’t leave,” he explains. “Had to assist remotely to get them out of there.”

That injects a dose of alertness in my veins, and I lift my head from his chest. “Are they all right?”

He turns into my bedroom, not answering.

“Saint,” I prompt.

He lays me down on the bed. “True got shot and Tor crashed.”

“What? Oh my God, I need to—”

“They’re fine,” he assures me, pushing me back down when I try to get up. “They received medical attention. True’s wound is just a flesh wound and Tor has a concussion. That’s the extent of it. No need to worry.”

Believing him, I settle down. “Oh. Okay. Thank God.”

“You believe in God now?”

“I believe in something. The universe? The fairy dust that made us?”

One corner of his mouth kicks up, his face highlighted in shades by the glow streaming in from the hallway. “Fairy dust, huh?”

“Well, not you. You’re made from embers and soot.”

“Aren’t you worried my soot will taint your fairy dust?”