I’m still curious, though, when we pull up in front of a restaurant called Pupusa. “We’re here.”

  “I figured,” I tell Connor as he gets out, once again not coming around to open my door. It’s pretty damn clear what he’s doing, trying to push me away. And if I were smart, I’d probably listen to his warnings and stop trying.

  We go inside and sit down in a booth. The place is bright with colors, from the orange-red of the floor tiles to the vibrant blue spelling out the restaurant name in a mural along one wall.

  Connor looks around while I take a quick glance at the laminated menu, unsure what he’s looking for. Finally, I decide that there are things more important than my grumbling stomach.

  “Did you get my laptop?” I ask for the tenth time. Yup, I decided that if he’s going to try and push me away, I’m going to show him how doggedly stubborn I can be. At first, he didn’t answer, but I knew I was making progress when he resorted to grunts. I need some answers, damn it. I need my laptop. So I’ll keep asking. “Helloooo . . . did you get it?” Make that eleven times.

  “No.”

  “So we’re grabbing a quick bite and then going to get it, I presume?” It’s a question but also . . . not. If he thinks filling me with tamales is going to get me to leave him alone, I’ll prove to him that I can tamale him right under the table.

  “I told you I was getting information. I did. Now we’re here. Eat.”

  He grabs a chip from the basket between us and bites into it. The crunch sounds final. But I’m not done, not remotely close to it.

  “What information? Where is it? When do I get it back?” I look at the door, grabbing my purse as I slide toward the edge of the booth. “Let’s go get it now.”

  Quick as a flash, Connor reaches across the table, placing his hand over mine. The touch of his skin against mine is electric, and I freeze, my body tingling with the sensation. It’s just my hand, but the way he makes me feel, I can’t move. “No. We’re not going anywhere. Not yet.”

  I swallow back the shock, searching his face through narrowed eyes. “What? Why?”

  Connor releases my hand, his lips twitching up in a half smile. “Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?”

  “More people than you can imagine,” I reply with a snort. “Better ones than you, too.” The dig is a leftover snipe from our earlier fight popping back up because I’m desperate to get my laptop back and lashing out.

  But Connor doesn’t take the bait. “Don’t doubt that a bit.”

  Well, that didn’t get the reaction I wanted. “Look, Connor. Whatever I need to do, wherever we need to go, can we please get to it?”

  “We are.”

  “What?” I snap. Connor looks at me, one brow lifted in expectation. It’s then that it all clicks together.

  “It’s here, isn’t it? My laptop is here!” I say.

  “Shh,” he shushes me. “And no. But the new owner is.”

  Okay, maybe I didn’t ‘say’ that so much as shout it. At least one table looks over at us, a woman giving me a strange look before going back to her conversation with her tablemate. Quieter, I say, “Where?”

  “Calm down first,” he orders. I do my best, curling in and pressing my hands into my lap, but I’m buzzing with energy and hope, bouncing in the seat. “That’ll do, I guess,” he says sarcastically. “My contact gave it to his kid who’s at work.”

  Connor gestures to the restaurant around us, and it makes sense now. I could so kiss him, and not just in a ‘let’s get it on’ sort of way. At the least, I wish he were still holding my hand, but when he lays his down on the table, one over the other, I clasp mine in my lap.

  Looking around, everyone in the room suddenly becomes the potential possessor of my laptop. Connor said ‘at work’, so it’s probably one of the staff. But all I see is a couple of waitstaff and one bored looking girl standing behind the cash register, examining her nails.

  “What’s his name?” I demand, ready to pat down search everyone in the restaurant if I have to. I said I’d do anything, and I well and truly meant it. Though maybe paying a ransom would be preferable to kidnapping or assault?

  Hmm, I wonder if that would be a good plot arc for my story? Maybe my hero has to rescue the heroine after she’s kidnapped? It is called Trouble in Great Falls, so that would track.

  Now that I’m so close to getting it back, my writer’s block seems to have totally crumbled, and all I can think of are story possibilities. Maybe even ideas for a third book? I open my mouth to say something to Connor but stop when a waitress walks up and asks, “Welcome, what can I get you to drink?”

  Connor smiles at her, his face transforming as he does. “Two waters, please. And can you tell Manuel I’m here? He’s expecting me.”

  The congenial smile and the polite tone are completely unlike the Connor I know. The waitress smiles back at him like I’m not sitting right here, and a very unexpected flash of jealousy surges inside me.

  Pointedly, I lay my hand over his and stoically tell the waitress, “Us. Manuel is expecting us.”

  If I could piss on Connor to claim him as my territory, I would. But it seems unneeded because the waitress’s smile falls at the obvious rebuff.

  “Sure. Two waters and Manuel, coming right up.” She scurries away, and Connor smirks at me.

  “Jealous.”

  As much as I ask question after question, Connor never does. He states facts, opinions, and sometimes opinions as facts.

  “Well, you are my fiancé,” I tease with an innocent blink of my lashes. “I’m not letting any rando bat her eyes at my man.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he says, but there’s a tiny twinkle in his eye. Or at least, I’d like to think there is.

  A few minutes later, the waitress reappears with two waters and downcast eyes. “Manuel said he’ll be right out.”

  I’m prepared to glare at her again, but she doesn’t look up a single time before she disappears into the kitchen. Once we’re alone, Connor turns back to me. “Tell me how you got into writing.”

  “What?” I ask, and Connor nods. “Really?”

  “You’ll hopefully never know the price that I’m paying for this. I won’t argue with you about whether I deserve it or not. But I want to know why I’m doing this.”

  Uhm, wow. That is . . . hot. And now I’m curious what he paid to get the info to get us here. Whatever it is, it obviously cost him dearly.

  “Other than my other author friends, I haven’t told anyone,” I admit. “I guess part of it is the way I grew up. I was awkward, too ‘this’ or too ‘that’ as a kid. I was always the kid who never had a group, you know?”

  Connor nods as though he understands, but I suspect he has never been awkward a day in his life.

  “Yeah, and I just couldn’t figure it out. So I watched everyone, trying to figure out how they weren’t too much or too little but somehow ‘just right’. Over the years, that became me creating entire backstories for everyone I saw. People at the mall . . . they might just walk past me for a split second, but if there were something interesting about them, I’d create this whole narrative in my mind. Who they were, where they were going, what their life was like. Eventually, I started writing it down, and more stories came to me about people who only live in my head.”

  Connor picks up his glass, taking a sip. “People in your head.”

  “I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I tell him quietly. “I just realized that whatever made me not fit in wasn’t going to change if I stayed true to myself. So I made my own friends in my mind and put them through hell . . . but only for good reason.”

  “A happy ever after?” he deadpans. He means it as a barb, but he doesn’t understand that I believe it in my heart.

  “Yes. Everyone deserves that.”

  Connor looks surprised, but considering how hard he keeps trying to shove me away, I think he doubts himself and his worthiness of his own HEA. “You think you’ll have that?” he asks quietly.

  “Happy doesn’t mean perfect,” I point out. “So by that, I already do. I have real friends who support me, and I support them back. I make a good living doing something I love and am passionate about. I have two dogs who love me unconditionally. I’m living my happily ever after.”

  “No prince?”

  Well, you’re pretty Dark Prince-y, I think but don’t say. I’d freak him out, and I’m not even ready to admit it to myself. “I’d like that, but if it doesn’t happen, I’ll be okay. I have plenty of princes in my life, even if they’re on pages. Or grumpy assholes who live next door.”

  It’s as close as I’ll get to what that little voice is saying, but even that hint has Connor pressing his lips tightly together and glaring at me dangerously.

  A few silent moments later, a young teen boy comes out, his white apron dingy and his T-shirt damp. He’s wiping his brow with a bandana as he walks our way.

  “Sorry to make you wait,” he says a little shyly. “You asked for me?”

  “Manuel?” Connor confirms, and the kid nods. “Good. Look, I’m a business associate of your dad’s . . . a friend.”

  It sounds like Connor stumbles over the word, but he keeps going. But he’s way too slow for my taste, and I can’t keep my mouth shut another second. “Where’s my laptop?”

  Manuel’s eyes widen, and then they dart off to the side before returning to Connor even though I asked the question. Connor meets the kid’s gaze, and I’d swear they’re having a silent conversation, but they just met and things like that take time. Right?

  “Who?” Connor demands in a quiet, almost kind voice. A kind demand . . . that’s a new one for me.

  “It’s fine. No worries,” Manuel says, looking over his shoulder again, but this time, it’s to check out the bored cashier. I can hear it now. This kid’s worried, scared. But not of Connor.

  “There’s blood on your apron, residue on your nose,” Connor states matter of factly. “You didn’t have a spontaneous bloody nose, Manuel. Who?”

  Now that Connor mentions it, I do see a tiny spot of dried blood on Manuel’s left nostril, and low on his apron, down by the hem, is a bright red spot. Manuel fidgets with the tied strings at his waist.

  “Who?” Connor growls, harsher this time.

  Manuel flinches and whispers. “You said you’re a friend of my dad’s? Can you get the laptop back?”

  Connor nods but bursts the kid’s bubble of hope. “I gave it to your dad not realizing that it was important to someone.” Manuel looks at me in question, and Connor confirms. “Yeah, it’s hers. She needs it back, but I’ll replace it.”

  I jump in, figuring that if Connor can be the rock, I can be the pillow for this kid. “Look, I’ll buy you a laptop, one of those big jobs that can game all day if you want. Or an Xbox . . . a PlayStation . . . anything you want. I just need my laptop back.”

  Manuel looks more and more excited as I list out all the things I’m willing to buy him. I don’t have any idea how I’ll afford it, but I’ll figure something out . . . if I can just get my manuscript back so I can get to work.

  “A laptop,” Connor corrects, giving me a hard look. “Only a laptop. We can talk upgrades after we get the original.”

  Manuel shrugs like that’s a more than acceptable deal. “Line cook. Tall guy, built like a tank. In back.”

  Connor nods. “Name?”

  “Derrick,” Manuel spits out.

  Connor stands and then thinks better of it. “Stay here,” he tells me, pressing his finger into the tabletop. An order and demand all wrapped up in one, if ever I heard one. And this one isn’t nice.

  Connor walks toward the kitchen before I can argue, but I still glare at his back, willing him to feel the painful pinpricks of my gaze. He walks through swinging door, and I look to Manuel.

  “You plan on making me do what he said?” I intentionally drop my voice, trying to sound deadly serious. Judging by the smile Manuel tries unsuccessfully to hide, it doesn’t work. But he shakes his head anyway. I stand up and roll my neck. “Good choice. You should go talk to her,” I suggest, cutting my eyes to the cashier. But the kid shrugs, looking shy again.

  Focusing on my own problems and looking as badass as I can, I stomp across the dining room. I steady myself before I go through the swinging door too.

  This is not the time to be rash and impulsive, not when there’s so much at stake.

  Steady as can be, I push through the door to find . . . nothing. And no one. The kitchen is empty, but the back door is open. Slowly, I move that way, acting like the food burning on the grill might jump up and get me. To my shame, I even look back at the swinging door wishing Manuel had come with me to offer a bit of moral support.

  When I peek out the door, I see a small group of men gathered in the fenced in alley area and Connor pointing his finger in a tall guy’s face. This must be Derrick because he is definitely built more like a tank than a human. For his part, Derrick is grinning impishly, his arms crossed easily over his chest, not at all worried about the man in front of him demanding answers.

  “Where’s the fucking laptop?” Connor snaps.

  “Check your mama’s cunt,” Derrick says. “It’s wide enough.”

  I expect punches then, but Connor doesn’t take the bait. “Don’t make me say it again, asshole. The laptop.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Connor’s jaw clenches, and he lowers his hands to his side. “You’re making a huge mistake.”

  I know I shouldn’t do anything, but I can’t control myself and suddenly find myself jumping between the two men. “Where’s my laptop, asshole?”

  Connor doesn’t react verbally, but I can sense him moving slightly to restrain me. Derrick’s white teeth flash as he laughs and tells Connor, “Better get your bitch under control, man. She’s losing it.”

  “His bitch?” I ask, growling. “He doesn’t control me. Nobody does.”

  “Maybe that’s what wrong with you?” Derrick suggests. “I could show you what you need—a real man to take control.”

  He moves to touch my hair, and I flinch back. But before I’m even halfway back, Connor’s moved fast as a blink, grabbing the big guy and spinning him to slam him against the brick wall of the restaurant. Derrick’s own size and weight work against him, making the impact hard and sharp.

  “Do. Not. Touch. Her.” Connor snarls. Around us, the rest of the restaurant staff freeze, shocked that the expected ass kicking they were looking forward to isn’t going the way they planned.

  “Whoa, whoa, dude. Chill,” one of the white-aproned guys says, but he makes no move to step in to stop Connor.

  Derrick’s grin is gone, his easy comfort replaced with anger and fear in equal measure. Trying to bluster, he ‘bro-laughs’. “I didn’t mean nothing by it. She’s the one that got all up in my face like a crazy bitch.”

  “I’ll show you a crazy bitch,” I threaten, pushing my way into the small space between the two men, my fist cocked back. In the tussle, Connor has to readjust and pushes me back with a hand on my forehead while keeping Derrick pinned with his forearm at his throat.

  “Let me, Pops. For once in your damn life, stand there and be quiet.”

  I growl, hating that phrase more than anything. I’ve been told to shut up so many times in my life that I finally quit trying. I keep to myself because I never tell myself to quit talking. I think I’m a good conversationalist.

  “You can bitch me out for that later. Promise. But for the sake of your laptop . . .”

  His eyes implore me to play this smart. Smarter than I have been. He’s actually on my team, playing a game where I don’t even know the damn rules. Not that I like it.

  “Fine,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. But I’m still glaring, one eye on Derrick and one eye on Connor, but not in a cross-eyed way. Just in a focused ‘did you know lionesses eat their young and I’m a mother fucking lioness’ kind of way.

  “My bad,” Derrick says, sounding cocky again. “Looks like you do have her under control.”

  “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” Connor grits out. “Where’s the laptop?”

  “Gave it to my girl.”

  “Address?” Connor demands.

  “No way,” Derrick argues, shaking his head. “You’re fucking crazy.”

  Connor’s forearm presses in harder. I can see the tension in his shoulders through the muscles in his back. Derrick’s face starts to turn a light shade of purple as Connor’s forearm begins cutting off his air.

  “You don’t seem to understand the shit you’ve stepped in,” Connor says in an almost eerily calm voice. “First, I need that laptop back. Now. And I don’t care what I have to do to get it. Second, you stole it from a kid you do not want to fuck with.”

  “Manny?” Derrick says, a laugh trying to bubble up past the pressure on his neck. “The dishwasher?”

  The other two guys who’ve been watching the show chuckle along too. They’re willing to laugh at Manuel but not step in to defend Derrick. At least someone around here is smart enough to not fuck with Connor.

  “Manuel,” Connor corrects. “He’s not someone you fuck with. Ever again. Or I’ll seem like the fucking Easter Bunny, a sweet surprise, compared to who comes to see you next time. Understood?”

  “Whatever you say, man.” Derrick doesn’t seem convinced.

  “The laptop.” The reminder is cold and calm. From my experience watching people, I think Connor is nearing the end of his rope. He’s someone who, the more you push him, the quieter he gets until he explodes like an atom bomb on your ass. “Where’s your girl?”

  “I pawned it,” Derrick answers.

  Connor’s lip lifts in a sneer. “You just said you gave it to your girl. Liar. I hate fucking liars.”

  Finally, Derrick looks like he gets it, and real fear trickles into his face. “I ain’t lying.”

  “Either you lied then or you’re lying now. Either way, you’re a liar.” Connor lets that sink in. “I hear you’re a cook too.” The subject change seems random until Connor stares Derrick down. “You know what cooks need more than anything?”