Page 32 of Trapped (Sheppard & Sons Investigations #6)
Ashley
O n Tuesday morning, Nathan checked the video feed before escorting Gran and me to my car, which he insisted on driving.
“Come on, Slick, just give me your keys.” He held his hand out.
“Slick?” Gran asked.
Watching Nathan as he realized his mistake was priceless. I was ready to cover for him but wanted to watch him sweat. His comically wide, ice-blue eyes turned to me. Begging. Pleading.
“It’s nothing. Nathan thinks he’s funny.” My shit-eating grin was pure innocence.
He nodded, but not before shooting me a look that promised I’d hear about it later. I wonder if he’ll spank me . I slammed the lid shut on that thought. Fantasizing about Nathan with Gran in the car would be a fate worse than death.
“Hmm, alright.” She looked between us. If I had to guess, Gran was debating whether she should call us out on the lie. “Give him your keys. It’ll be fun to have a handsome chauffeur.”
Remembering Jamie driving Emily and me around last July made me laugh so hard I snorted. It was either that or cry. Because Jamie had driven that day for the same reason Nathan was driving today.
How the hell did I let this happen?
Instead of taking the keys, Nathan’s warm hand surrounded mine. “You okay?”
Damn him for seeing too much .
“Yeah, just remembering when Emily needed protection and Jamie was our chauffeur.”
His stare drilled into my soul, seeing what I didn’t want him to see. With a quick nod, he said, “Okay then, let’s go.” He turned to Gran. “We don’t want to keep your doctor waiting.”
Nathan stood guard while I helped Gran into the back seat. He folded her walker and put in the front passenger seat. When I asked why he didn’t put it in the trunk, he whispered, “Quick access.”
Hoping my forced smile hid my fear, I slid into the back seat next to Gran. Nathan started the engine, propped his phone in my mounted dash phone holder, and adjusted the mirror.
“What’s a good driver name?” Gran asked.
“Mario,” I answered without thinking. Then I pictured Nathan as a short, round cartoon figure ducking out of the way of fiery bombs and jumping from box to box.
The resulting giggle fit made me snort. I wish I could say my giggling fits were all from humor, but Nathan’s tense watchfulness had me on edge.
“What’s so funny about Mario Andretti?” Nathan asked.
When I finally caught my breath, I said, “I was thinking more along the lines of Mario and Luigi, you know, the brothers who save the princess?”
“Princess Violet has a nice ring to it.” He used the mirror to look at Gran and grinned.
“Nonsense. I’d rather be a queen. Not just any queen. A ruling queen in my own right. Like Queen Elizabeth the First.”
Leave it to my grandmother to one-up Nathan.
“Queen Violet it is.”
“You can be a princess, dear.” She patted my leg.
“I don’t know. Princess Ashley doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Nathan said.
Biting down on my lips was the only thing keeping the words, fuck you, Casper, from flying out of my mouth. But Gran hated the f-word, so I held my lips between my teeth until the urge passed.
Nathan laughed at my frustration.
“Stop laughing, Mario.”
It only made him laugh more. And holy shit did my heart do a flip-flop listening to his deep, rumbling, full-on, from-the-gut laughter.
At the doctor’s office, Nathan made us wait in the car until he’d opened Gran’s walker. He opened my door, then stood guard while I helped Gran out. I could only imagine what people thought seeing us with a bodyguard outside Doc Greenfield’s office.
This was Weatherford, not Hollywood. We were the Yorks, not the Kardashians.
Nathan and I kept our shenanigans to a minimum in the waiting room filled with old magazines and children’s books and toys.
What little talking we did, we did in hushed tones.
Luckily, Doc and her team got my message that my upcoming appointment was a secret.
The last thing I needed was Gran hearing about my appointment from our doctor.
When a little girl, maybe four or five years old, walked up to Nathan and asked about his scar, her mother scolded her.
“It’s okay, ma’am.” He turned to the little girl. “Do you know what a Navy SEAL is?”
She shook her head while mumbling, no.
“Well, that’s what I am. I had to do a dangerous job, and I got hurt.” He lied, but for all the right reasons.
“Does it hurt?” she asked shyly.
“No, not anymore.”
She didn’t notice him clutching the arm of the small, hard plastic chair, but I did. I laid my hand on his forearm and traced slow circles on his forearm.
The white around his knuckles slowly returned to the natural shade of tanned skin that spoke of long hours outside.
The mom thanked Nathan for his service before ushering her daughter to the kid’s table.
“You okay?” I asked.
He reached for my hand. “I am now.”