“Excuse me? I wasn’t the one who grabbed a gun and started waving it around without a clue of how to use it,” I say, slipping my arm out of his.
“I wouldn’t have had to do anything that drastic if you hadn’t stomped on that man’s foot. And then kicked him in the balls. And then in the side.” Nate wipes his forehead; he’s red-faced, sweaty, and looking for someone to blame. “They would’ve given us a ride back to town if you hadn’t—”
“Pulled a gun on them and threatened to shoot?” I ask, really drawing the words out. Nate pauses. Yeah, that’s right, Wexler. Gun trumps nut kick. “For all we knew, we were in real trouble. I had to do something, didn’t I?”
“That something would’ve gotten you killed if it hadn’t been pretend,” he snaps. “Doesn’t that matter?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have had to go Death Wish on those assholes if you’d done something yourself.” I cross my arms. “Yeah, you probably had your hands loose a while before, and you didn’t do shit.”
“I was thinking about how to react,” he says with that maddening magna cum laude tone of his. “If you don’t think, you’re no better than an animal.”
“And if you don’t react when you’re threatened, or someone you care about is threatened, you’re no better than a computer!” I yell.
Nate tilts his head. “Someone you care about?” he echoes.
Oh, shit. My cheeks are flushed solely because of the desert. That’s it.
“Hypothetically. Isn’t that a word you lawyers love? You’re all crazy about hypothetical bullshit,” I grumble, and stomp ahead. I don’t recommend stomping on hot sand and rocks in your bare feet, but dammit, this moment called for a stomp.
Nate sighs. “Come back,” he says.
“Save your apologies,” I call behind me. I hear his footsteps crunching behind me, catching up. Well, when he does, we can have a good talk—
I’m swept off my feet. Literally. Nate grunts, but hefts me into his arms and walks.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“The ground’s hurting your feet,” Nate says. He shrugs, a little difficult while carrying me. “I wanted to give you a rest for a bit.”
“I can walk,” I say, though it’s a little sullen. Nate grins.
“I know. But I wanted to be a gentleman about it.”
This guy. Can anyone figure this guy out? One minute he’s lecturing me, the next he’s pulling a John Wayne and carrying me out of the desert. It’s kind of exasperating. Maybe a little sexy, too.
“Well. Let me know if you get tired,” I say. He’s moving pretty well, though. Must work out. I mean, if his body looks like it felt last night, he must work out a lot.
“I’ll put you back down when we reach that mirage right in front of us,” he grumbles.
I look ahead. I see it. Damn, it’s a good mirage, too. It’s a squat white and blue painted building rippling ahead in the desert heat. A wooden sign has a picture of a cherry pie on it, and letters that spell out the word DINER on top of that . . . .
Wait a minute. No mirage is that detailed.
“On second thought,” Nate says, relief flooding his voice. “I think we’re saved.”
I’m not even listening now; I scramble out of his arms, shoes still clutched in my hand, and charge over to the building. I don’t even feel the hot sand and rocks on my feet any longer. Whoever decided to build a diner along a desolate stretch of highway in the middle of Nevadan nowhere gets my unadulterated love forever and ever.
I pull open the door, a bell tinkling overhead, and a blast of perfect, air-conditioned air hits me.
“Yo! No shoes, no service,” the man behind the counter yells. He’s got a craggy face and an even craggier personality.
Whatever. I abide by your rules, slinger of pie and refreshments. As I tug my sandals back on, Nate comes up beside me.
“Treat you to a glass of water?” he asks. He seems as relieved as I feel.
“Love one.” We walk in and slide into a red vinyl booth. The seat is cracked and stuffing is sticking out of it, but right now it’s the sweetest sight ever.
The craggy guy brings us each a glass of water, and we suck them down. I even pick up an ice cube and run it over my forehead, luxuriating in the icy perfection of it all.
“Feeling better?” Nate asks, leaning back in his seat. He’s definitely sweaty, the dampness of his shirt accentuating the perfect lines of his torso. I don’t mind.
“Maybe we should get some pie to celebrate?” I ask.
“I can’t have too many sweet things in the day,” he says, closing his eyes in relief. “It interferes with the metabolism.”
“You drink kale smoothies?” I ask. “With lemon juice?”
“No.” He makes a pained expression. “I’m just careful with what I eat.”