Hiding His Witness by C. J. Miller

next to the minimart. Only one other car was parked, another filling up their tank at the gas pump.
    Reilly turned off the ignition. “You want anything to eat?”
    “Sure. I could go for some food.”
    He’d grabbed a box of crackers from his house before they’d left and she’d eaten most of them. She mentally calculated how much money she had and figured she could spare a dollar or two from the emergency cash jammed in her duffel bag.
    They went inside, Reilly threading through the aisles of snack foods and traveler conveniences to the coffee bar. Carey kept her head down as she followed after him. The store was mostly empty, but she didn’t want to chance anyone recognizing her.
    The coffee smelled as if it had been sitting since the morning, brown stains burnt to the side of the glass pots. Reilly didn’t seem to mind and he snatched a gallon-sized jug from the line of cups and filled it, adding sugar and cream. He gestured around the store. “Get anything you want. We have another seven hours on the road.”
    Carey’s stomach growled and she took Reilly’s advice, picking up a bag of pretzels and a bag of gummy worms. Reilly added a few items to their order, including some shrink-wrapped subs with wilted lettuce. He insisted on paying. They gathered their stash and returned to the car.
    “Thank you for this,” she said, gesturing to the food in her lap.
    “It’s nothing.”
    But it was something to her. No one had bought her anything in the last year. Not a birthday present. Not a greeting card. Her throat grew tight. His kindness touched her deeply. He’d think she was overreacting, so she turned her attention to the window.
    He pulled to the filling station and got out to pump his gas. Carey tore into her gummy worms.
    She watched Reilly, his torso visible through the window. He was a magnificent specimen of a man, and beneath his jacket and dress shirt, she guessed she’d find pumped biceps and a tight stomach. What woman wouldn’t take notice? Not that she had delusions about him. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in pursuing a physical relationship with her and she doubted he desired any relationship at all. She didn’t blame him.
    She was lonely. Needy. On the run. Her life was a mess. He had his together.
    But he had ignited something in her blood. He made her feel alive. And she liked how it felt to be back among the living. She imagined kissing him, running her hands over his bare skin, nibbling on his earlobes. Nothing so detailed that she got lost in her fantasies, but enough to keep tension humming in her veins.
    If Reilly kissed her, his lips would be soft, yet firm, commanding and giving, hungry and satisfying. His mouth would close over hers and in that moment, he would own her. And if they made love, she would climb on top of him and then she would own him. She smiled at the idea, at owning a man like Reilly, even for a night. Undoubtedly, it would be amazing.
    But Reilly had other ideas. They were witness and detective, plain and simple, and Reilly seemed intent on keeping it that way.
    * * *
    Carey fell asleep curled against the inside of the car door, another sweatshirt she’d pulled from her duffel across her upper body like a blanket, her empty bags of food on the floor by her feet.
    No one had followed them from Denver. For long stretches of highway, they’d been alone.
    Reilly took another swallow of coffee and glanced over at her serene face, the red hair falling across it. For the hundredth time that day, he wondered about her, about the man she was terrified of and why she thought running was the only option. In the short time he’d known her she seemed to behave like two different women. Scared Carey, who wanted to flee and hide, was a direct contrast to bold Carey, who had interrupted a stabbing in progress, who’d stroked his arm with delicate fingers, who’d smirked at him in a way that made his mind leap to all kinds of lusty possibilities. His gaze did a