“You have a name?” her question hit him between the shoulder blades.
“Kason.” Last names weren't important. He planned to feed her, then release her. He'd never see her again.
“I’m Dayne.”
Introductions over, he nodded without looking up.
Dayne Sheridan leaned a hip against the counter, read Kason's expression. The man wanted her gone. A grilled cheese sandwich and he'd show her the door.
To hell with him; she wasn't leaving. The mobile home held her food. She wasn't about to walk away from her groceries. They'd cost her her last dime.
Kason claimed the trailer belonged to him, yet she'd seen no proof of purchase. She wanted to see the deed.
She studied him as he took a loaf of rye from the bread box and laid out eight slices. His hair was dark, his brown eyes sharp. Cheekbones slashed to an aggressive chin. He had a muscular build, wide shoulders, and thick thighs.
He wore a gray pullover and a pair of Wranglers that rode low on his hips. She could see the black waistband of his boxers when he bent to remove the wheel of Swiss cheese from the refrigerator.
Dark, dangerous, fallen, crossed her mind. And definitely a loner. She thought she'd seen his picture somewhere, but couldn't pinpoint the time or place. Maybe on America's Most Wanted.
The tire iron lay on the counter, midway between them. The tool was her primary means of protection should he show her the door. If she inched a little closer, she could swipe—
“Back it up,” Kason said, cutting off her lunge. He moved the tool beyond her reach. “I like my head on my shoulders.”
She held her spot at the end of the breakfast bar. If she couldn't get to the tire iron, there were always knives. The plastic ones available weren't a great defense, but she'd feel safer with one in her pocket. Or maybe a fork— prongs could jab.
Silence separated them as Kason made the sandwiches. He sliced thick wedges when she'd have conserved with slivers. She hoped he wouldn't eat the entire wheel of Swiss cheese in one sitting. She was on a very tight budget.
Her mother had taught her to bargain shop. Buying in bulk saved her from regular trips to the grocery store. Large quantities were cheaper and stretched over weeks. She could survive on what she had here for a month.
She watched as Kason slid the sandwiches into the toaster oven and set the timer for three minutes. He then popped the lid on the tomato soup and poured it into a pan on the stove.
Dayne inhaled; there was something comforting about soup and sandwiches. They said stable, homey, family. She didn't let the feeling overtake her. A sense of home had eluded her ever since her father had deserted her mother when Dayne was twelve.
“How'd you land here?” Kason said, breaking into her past. He'd collected paper plates and bowls, along with plastic silverware. The man was ready to eat.
There was no reason to tell him about Mick Jakes, radio personality, ex-fiancé, and weasel among men. He had dumped her on the air. Dayne had heard the broadcast along with his million listeners.
Dayne had gone numb. She'd worked at WBT 91.2 as Mick's assistant, promoting his talk show through speaking engagements and live on-site remotes. They'd talked marriage in the fall, and she'd hired a wedding planner.
With their breakup, she'd lost her job. Mick had gone as far as to change the locks on the condo they'd shared, then closed their joint checking account.
Humiliation had sent Dayne packing. She'd had fifty dollars to her name and a full tank of gas when she'd left Baltimore. Heartbreak, self-pity, and her wedding file accompanied her south.
She'd changed the settings on her car radio. Mick in the Morning was dead to her. She'd sworn off men who lived in the public eye.
Dayne blinked away her past. Her good luck sucked. She'd drifted in and out of small towns for a week. Two flat tires, a lost wallet, and sleeping in her car had added insult to injury. She'd never been more miserable.
Without a lot of back story, she told Kason about the accident that had brought her to the trailer. “I was on the interstate, headed south, when a snowstorm hit. Zero visibility, no sense of direction—I got lost. The side roads proved slippery and I skidded straight into a snow bank. My Camry died. Once the blizzard let up, I walked until I came across this mobile home.”
“My mobile home.” He sent her a dark look. “You're not originally from Richmond, then?”
Baltimore, Maryland, no longer existed for her. “Richmond is my home now.” Finding the trailer had given her hope. She'd felt comfortable in the woods. She had no plans to leave.
“Where's your car?”
She sighed. “I had it towed. The estimate on repairs would have cost more than the heap was worth. I sold it for scrap.”
“How are you getting around?”
“On a bicycle with a basket. It beats walking.”
She'd walked six miles each way her first week of employment at Frank's Food Warehouse. She'd formed blisters on her feet, and her arms had ached from carting home groceries.
She'd humbly requested an advance on her paycheck, and with cash in hand, purchased a used Schwinn. As long as the bike didn't blow a tire, she was in good shape. She had pedal power.
The timer dinged and Kason slid the sandwiches from the toaster oven onto two plates. Three grilled cheeses for him, one for her. He then split the soup into bowls. Dayne swore she got the lesser portion.
“Kool-Aid or soda?” she asked.
A hint of a smile as he said, “I haven't had Kool-Aid since I was five.”
Neither had she. She'd bought the Kool-Aid on impulse. Memories of her dad and her dipping their fingers into the packets and sampling the sugary granules remained as sweet as the drink. She could still see her father's purple tongue when he'd stuck it out after tasting the grape flavor. Her own tongue had been bright green from the lime food coloring. They'd both laughed so hard...
“Raspberry or fruit punch?” Dayne offered.
“Fruit punch.”
She found a pitcher, stirred up the Kool-Aid. No ice—they'd have to drink it warm. Two plastic glasses in hand, she moved to a small oval table situated before the west-facing living room window.
Kason made two trips to deliver their dinner. He dropped a spoon beside her bowl, then took the chair across from her. The man could eat. He'd inhaled two sandwiches before she'd finished her first half.