Resisting the Boss: Office Suspense Romance (Dirty Hot Resistance Series Book 4) by Emelia Blair

Author:Emelia Blair [Blair, Emelia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-07-08T18:30:00+00:00

I prefer my bike to a car any day.

However, in this case, driving all the way to Chesapeake City, a car is the best option, especially considering there are two of us.

Halley sleeps half the way, bags under her eyes, and I wonder why she has so much trouble sleeping. Of course when I ask her, her answer doesn’t exactly surprise me; I have my suspicions.

“Nightmares,” she mumbles before stretching her arms over her head and yawning. Snuggling into her seat, a cross of a sullen and sleepy expression on her face, she mutters, “It’s the same damn thing each time. I could just write a motion picture on it at this point.”

I chuckle. “Why don’t you tell me about it? We still have a while to go.”

Expecting something amusing, my smile slowly drops as she begins describing it, her words painting something that even makes me shudder. It does shock me that it’s the same dream every time. Do nightmares work that way?

I’ve had the occasional bad dream but never on repeat like a broken record.

“Did you ever talk to anyone?” I ask, my eyes on the road.

“Aside from Aunt Ange, nobody. When I first came there, she would listen to it, and after some time, she told me to start writing down the details.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing,” she replies, her tone a bit sad. “It helped me get it out of my system, I guess. And after a while, the nightmares ceased—well, not exactly, they became more infrequent. Lately, it’s just been bad. Maybe I should start writing them down again,” she murmurs the last part to herself.

I do find it odd but I choose not to say anything.

When she plugs in her phone to play some music, the atmosphere lightens up and I have to spend the rest of the car ride listening to her belt out the songs one after the other to my amusement.

“Come on, Jace.” She nudges me. “I know you know this one!”

“No.” I try to save myself. “I’m a terrible singer and I really don’t—”

“Oh, come on!” She coaxes, laughter in her eyes. “I’m no Celine Dion—what are you, shy?”

“No!” I glare at her.

“So, sing it with me.” She bares her teeth in a grin. “Unless, of course, cluck, cluck.” She makes the sound of a chicken, her hands making makeshift wings.

“I’m not chicken,” I growl. When she doesn’t cease, I grumble, “Stop it!”

“Sounds like you’re scared. Just one song?” She starts wheedling.

Knowing there is no chance she will shut up without having her way, I reluctantly give in.

It’s a nineties song that she’s singing along to and I recall the lyrics as my mother used to have it playing on her cassette player in our house. But I awkwardly stumble through it, my voice not at all suited to the timbre bass required for the song, and after a few lines, I fade into silence, preferring to listen to Halley’s voice, which is surprisingly in tune.

“Why’d you stop?” she asks, disappointed.

My lips curve, slightly.

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