“But I have money,” I insisted.

He arched a brow. “But I don’t need it.”

I shook my head as I started to open my wallet. “How much does it—hey!” I snapped as he took my wallet and my purse from my hands. “What the hell?”

“Like I said, honey, I got it covered.” Closing up my wallet, he dropped it in my purse and then shoved it behind his seat.

My eyes narrowed on him. “That’s so not cool.”

“A thank-you would be cool, though.”

“I didn’t ask you to pay for it.”

“So?”

I blinked at him.

Jax winked.

I drew back a little. He winked, and my lady parts were like whoa, way on board with that, which was probably a good indication I needed to pay more attention to said parts, because they were getting desperate.

And I was feeling a wee bit boy crazy, but who’d blame me?

A minute later we were back on the road and I had a huge bag of food in my lap and two sweet teas jostling around in a holder. I hadn’t really paid attention to what he’d ordered, but by the weight of the warm and wonderful-smelling bag, it was half the menu.

“You look nothing like your mother,” he said unexpectedly.

That much was true. Mom dyed her hair a sunny blond, or at least she used to. I wasn’t sure since I hadn’t seen her in a while, but the last time I’d been around her, the day I’d left Plymouth Meeting to attend Shepherd, she’d been looking . . . rough.

“Her life . . . it’s been hard. She used to be really pretty,” I heard myself saying as I stared out the window, watching the strip mall of fast-food joints disappear.

“I imagine so, if she looked anything like you.”

My gaze swung to him sharply, but he wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t grinning or smiling. Nothing about him would’ve led me to believe that hadn’t been a genuine statement, but I wasn’t pretty, and that belief had nothing to do with a low self-esteem. I had a scar cutting across my left cheek. That tended to universally ruin features.

I didn’t know what Jax was up to and I didn’t want to find out. I had bigger and more important things to focus on and worry over.

But when I saw that Jax was turning off the main roadway, hitting a back road—a shortcut—I was staring at him again. “You know where the house is?”

He grunted out what I assumed was a yes.

“You’ve been there before?”

His hand tightened on the steering wheel. “A few times.”

A horrible thought formed in my head. “Why have you been to her house?”

“Don’t you mean our house since you used to live there?”

“Uh, no. I might’ve lived there while I was in high school, but it was never my home.”

He glanced at me, and then fixed his gaze on the road. A moment passed. “The first time I had to come out to your mom’s house was with Clyde. Mona . . . she went on a bender. Got so shitfaced that we thought we were going to have to take her to the hospital.”