RYDER STOOD IN FRONT of a van with his hands on his hips. “No, I don’t want the backseats removed.”
“You always want the backseats removed,” countered a woman midway in age between me and Wolfie. Something about her posture made me think she was an alpha, which might explain why she seemed distinctly unamused at having her demands debated.
For his part, Ryder appeared oblivious to that undercurrent. Instead, he waggled his eyebrows then steered the conversation down an unnecessary side alley. “Back seats are dangerous. Everybody knows that. After all, kids in the backseat make accidents and accidents in the backseat make kids.”
I swallowed my laugh while the woman rolled her eyes. “Very funny. Now, can we hurry up and remove the seats, install the motorcycle, and leave?”
A throat clear
