Hunter √

Chapter Seven

She'd really and truly done it.

Finally.

She did her damnedest to resist the smile that tugged at her lips. Grabbing her purse from the front seat, she walked around her car to pick up her newspaper.She was just straightening when she spotted the twisted front fight fender. A memory rushed at her and she felt the wheel beneath her fingers, the jolt as the car hit the light pole, the explosion of pain in her skull.

Her gaze skittered a few feet and snagged on the western shit draped over the mailbox. Her heart started to pound and her mind rushed back. She felt the soft cotton slithering over her arms, smelled the mesmerizing scent of leather and wildness and raw power.

No way.

No. Frigging. Way.

He wasn't a vampire. He couldn't be. That much she knew. As for driving her home...Maybe he had been the one to drive her here.

Maybe he was still here.

Yeah, right.

If---and we're talking a big if considering there were a dozen other possibilities---he had driven her home, he was nowhere in sight now. A quick glance inside the car confirmed what she already knew--no notes, no goodbye. Nothing.

She snatched up the shirt , walked toward her front door and tried to ignore a crazy rush of disappointment.

She'd hooked up with him precisely because he wasn't the type of man who stuck around for an awkward morning after.

One wild night, she reminded herself.

And now it was back to her calm, tame life.

***

"I AIN'T NEVER SEEN a shopping cart do this much damage" Darrell Call ran one grease-stained hand over the twisted metal.

He was the owner and operator of Darrell's Pit Stop, probably the last full service gas station in the free world.

While he wasn't actually open on Sundays, she'd caught him in his garage doing oil change on old man Witherspoon's 1970 Bonneville.

"Are you sure that's all you hit?" he finally asked after another careful inspection.

Devon shrugged. "It might have been two of them stuck together." She'd gone to high school with Darrell. He'd been one of the only boys who hadn't hit on her---he'd only had eyes for Mable Sinclair. They'd married right after high school and had three kids. Little Darrell, May and Ranger---named after Darrell's favourite baseball team.

"My cousin rammed a shopping cart once." Darrell let loose a stream of tobacco juice  and arched an eyebrow at her. "All he got was  few little scratches."

"They're making them sturdier these days."

"They are painting 'em yellow, too?" He eyeballed a small section that had flecks of dried paint embedded in the metal.

"I might have grazed one of those parking posts after i hit the shopping cart. Can you fix it?" she added before he could ask another question.

He shrugged. "I can try banging her out, but if that don't work I'll have to order a new fender."

"How long do you think it will take?"

"A week or two. Maybe more. Depends on if we have to order parts."

Dread welled inside her. The last thing she wanted was to have to explain the car to anyone.

She didn't want to lie.