Sarah stared at the piece of paper in his outstretched hand. “I can’t.” She took a step back. “Sorry.”

“Can’t what?”

“Meet you at your office.”

The lightness the laughter had caused in his face had dissipated. “Okay . . .” he said slowly. “I’m a little confused here.”

“I’m happy to help. Truly. I just . . .”

His eyes narrowed. “You are something else.” His tone wasn’t admiring. It was anything but. “Fine. I’ll pay for your damn gas. Mileage. Figure it out and bill me.”

“It’s not that. My . . .” She inhaled. Huffed it out. “I don’t have access to my car at present.” She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the mirrored sunglasses he’d latched on the neckline of his gray T-shirt. She saw him still. Could feel the intensity of his gaze studying her. “Stop staring at me,” she snapped. She could feel a flush of embarrassed heat suffuse her face as the vivid memory of Saturday roared to the forefront. The cop. The shakes. “It’s not my fault.” She should shut up. She didn’t have to answer to him or to anyone for that matter. She closed her eyes briefly in an attempt to block out the memory of the hours she had spent on the Los Angeles bus system, aimless at first, and then trying to find her way back to Mick’s house. The long arduous walk home along winding canyon roads. Dusty. Uphill, lugging heavy bags of food in the dark. The continuous stream of cars roaring past, the feeling of helplessness and anger, too, running from the law when she had done nothing wrong.

“What happened to it?” His voice cut into her thoughts, yanked her back to his kitchen.

“To what?”

“Your car? Did you sell it? That’s crazy. You can’t get by without a car in LA. Seriously. If you needed money, you should have asked for an advance—”

“It’s in the shop,” she snapped, in an attempt to shut him up. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. The man was not without eyes. Sooner or later he was bound to notice that her car was still AWOL.

Mick studied her face for a moment longer and then took a step back. He leaned his hip against the kitchen counter, all relaxed awareness now, thumbs slung through the front belt loops of his faded jeans. “Okay,” he said. His voice was gentle. If it had been someone else, she might have even described it as kind. “You can ride with me. How much time do you need?”

She blinked at him, still flagellating herself for the stupidity of her gaffe. “Pardon?”

“I’ll drive. How long will it take you to”—he tipped his head toward her and raised an eyebrow inquiringly—“clean up? You said ten minutes?”

“Ten. Fifteen tops.” She took a step toward the hall when his voice stopped her.