Fall Into Me by Linda Winfree

toasty crust. “I mean, come on. We both know you have your pick of the local women.”
    He looked up then, a sharp gleam in his eyes. “You think?”
    The heavy irony in his voice didn’t make sense. She swiped her finger across the white dusting on her sandwich before licking the sweet substance from her fingertip. “What is wrong with you?”
    His gaze dropped to her finger and mouth, then lifted to her eyes. “Nothing.”
    “That’s my line, boy.” She reached for her tea. “Women own that word, remember?”
    He didn’t rise to her teasing, his gaze locked on hers. “Don’t call me boy. I’m at least eight years beyond that, Angel.”
    “You”—she pointed at him—“are in a weird mood.”
    For a long moment, he watched her before the lingering tension drained from his features. “Yeah.” He glanced away toward the water once more. “Something like that.”
    She eyed his profile. A muscle flicked in his jaw. She picked up her sandwich, took a bite she didn’t really taste, chewed, swallowed. “So what are y’all playing tonight?”
    “Probably the usual.” He turned his attention back to her, or at least his food, reaching for his own PBJ. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep the dance floor hopping.”
    With the shift in topic, the awkwardness diminished somewhat and they spent the following minutes eating, sharing more silence than conversation. When they’d finished, he collected the wrappers and bag and dropped them in a nearby trashcan. Turning, he dusted his hands. “Ready for that walk?”

    “Oh Mark, no.”
    At Tori’s exaggerated groan, Mark slanted a look at her while he put the Blazer in park. “What?”
    She cast a glum appraisal around the lot belonging to Uncle Robert’s Used Cars. “I despise car shopping.”
    “We’re not shopping. We’re looking.” The door creaked as he pushed it open and came around to open hers. She turned sideways in her seat but didn’t slide from the truck.
    “It’s not like you’re going to part with the Blazer, so this is pointless.” She perked up, a smile curving her mouth, and she ran a teasing finger down the center of his chest. “There is, however, a little vintage shop just around the corner. That, my dear love, is the way to spend Saturday morning. Antiquing. Not car shopping.”
    “No.” He kissed her. “No antiques. Not today.”
    “But you’re going to make me look at cars you have no intention of buying.” She pouted but let him pull her from the cab. “At least I purchase things when I go shopping.”
    He turned her to face the massive offering of vehicles. “What do you want to look at?”
    “Iron bedsteads.” On a sigh, he gave her a look and she shrugged, completely unapologetic. “You asked what I wanted to look at.”
    “Tick’s right. You can be a brat when you want to.” He squinted at a gleaming Volvo SUV with low miles. “Doesn’t your brother Del have one of these?”
    “Yes.” Complete boredom dripped from the monosyllable.
    If an insurance salesman drove one, it had to be safe, right? He looked down the first row of vehicles, trying to remember what he’d read or heard about safety ratings, mentally checking off the models he’d seen crumpled and twisted with major injuries or fatalities involved.
    “Tor, have you ever thought about trading in that tin can of yours?”
    She groaned. “So that’s what this is about. Mark, I like my car and it’s only four years old. Besides, it’s paid for.”
    “Honey, all I’m asking you to do is look at something a little bigger and maybe safer.” He cupped her chin and rubbed his thumb across her jaw. “Seeing what that pickup did to Kaydee Davis’s Miata the other day scared the hell out of me.”
    She scowled at him for a long moment. “Fine, I’ll look. But no promises.”
    “Deal.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tucked her close to his side. “So, what do you want to look at?”
    “Well, nothing my brother the insurance salesman