“Great,” I say. “I’ll drive.”
“When I said one car or two, I meant that I’ll drive or we’ll drive separately.” He takes a sip of his drink as he turns to me. “I’ll go see if they’ll move so we can go.”
I scoff at him. “I will drive.”
He’s not convinced. His thick eyebrows give his eyes a darker vibe. It might scare a mere mortal. I, on the other hand, am stronger than that. As long as he doesn’t lick his lips or something.
“Look, your car is inaccessible. Mine is free. I also carry a valid driver’s license.” I adjust my grin into a smirk. “And I only have, like, eight points on my license from that time that I hit and ran—”
“What?” His mouth drops open.
I laugh. “I’m kidding, Wade. Relax. Breathe.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Back at you.” I turn toward my car. “Now, let’s go so we can get there. I’m sure you have another appointment today. I would hate for you to stand here arguing with me so long that it makes you …” I gasp. “Late.”
He narrows his eyes. I wink and head to my car.
I appear as cool, calm, and collected as possible as I walk away from him across the parking lot. But, inside, my blood pumps through my veins so fast that I think I might stumble on a pebble and fall on my face.
I stop in front of my Mustang, then—while holding my breath—turn to see if he followed me.
Wade’s steps are determined, his face unsure. Still, he marches his way through the vehicles with his coffee cup clenched in his hand.
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” I say, unlocking the doors.
“Can I bring my coffee? Or would you rather me discard it?”
“You haven’t peeked in the windows yet, huh?”
He rolls his eyes but climbs into the passenger’s seat as I make myself comfortable in the driver’s side.
I didn’t think this through.
His proximity in the small cab is dangerous. I say a prayer that he doesn’t accidentally brush against me and that I remember how to get to the building site.
“Buckle up, buttercup,” I say, stretching the belt over my body.
“Without a doubt.”
I pause, giving him a look before I snap mine in place.
“Where can I set this?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder into the back seat.
“What? Your folder and notepad? You can toss them into the back.”
He angles his body to face mine. His face is sober. “Should I sit them on the stuffed animal or the pizza box?”
“Oh. Not the stuffed animal. There’s a chance that might have sweet potato puke residue.”
He flinches.
“It’s not likely. I said there’s a chance. I washed it, but you never know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s not my puke,” I say. “I don’t even eat sweet potatoes, and I never will, thanks to the kid who shot an orange stream of vomit all over me.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he shifts in his seat.
Instead of answering the questions written all over his face, I get ready to go. I adjust my mirror and then turn the car on. Then I make sure the climate control is set at a warm seventy-three degrees.
I reach for the radio controls when he reaches toward the back seat. His shoulder brushes against mine.
Our heads whip to each other at the contact.
His breath is hot and coffee-y. Mine is probably hot and breakfast-burrito-y, but I don’t think about that. I try to extract myself from the depths of his eyes.
“You in the mood for anything specific?” I ask.
It’s only when his pupils go wide—only to quickly hood—do I realize what I’ve said.
“I mean music-wise,” I say, heat inching up my neck and pooling in my cheeks. “Do you want to listen to anything specific?”
He tosses his folder in the back, his jaw set firmly. The folder lands on the pizza box with a thud.
“No,” he says, his voice contained.
“Fine. I’ll pick.” I sort through the stations, giving too much thought to what he might like to listen to—only to realize that I have no damn clue. How would I know? I wouldn’t. “How about country? Do you like that?”
He gets settled next to me. “Sure.”
I focus on finding the station and setting the volume at the perfect height … and not at the man sitting next to me.
Finally, I reach for the temperature control to lower it a degree, thanks to my flushed cheeks.
He sighs. “Are we ever going to pull out?”
My hand stills on the dial. He walked into this one—not me. And there’s something wonderfully cheeky about that.
I bite my lip and look at him. “Do you pull out often?”
Being flirtatious comes with the territory of being a photographer. Word play has always come naturally to me, much to the chagrin of my mother and teachers. But when I’m around Wade, the innuendos are even easier. I can’t stop myself
The car is too small for both of us.
He takes a long, deep breath, and I feel like his entire body swells to fill the cab. I lean back, my eyes glued to his, as he processes my question.
I can feel my blood pushing through the veins in my neck. My palms sweat. The temperature probably needs to be lowered to sixty-nine but I’m not about to move.
His lips twitch. “If you don’t move this car onto the road, I’m going to get out and go back inside and work.”
Relief at the break in tension sweeps over me like a breaking wave. I smile.
“That wasn’t an answer to my question, but fine,” I say, putting the car in reverse.
He sits silently as I pilot us into the street.
Traffic is light as I make my way onto the freeway and head toward the property my grandfather showed me. I hit the gas to mix into traffic when Wade stiffens next to me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
I zoom around a truck filled with lumber and then fall back into line in front of it.
“Was that necessary?” he asks. “You drive like Boone.”
“Again, I don’t know who Boone is. Also, yes, that was necessary. Haven’t you watched those movies where the … well, I think they were trees and not just boards but, anyway, they come through the windshield and impale people?”
“I’m happy to say I missed that cinematic experience.”
“What kind of movies do you like?” I pause. “Let me take a guess. Something about math? Math or … rocks.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Let’s be frank here, Mr. Mason. You aren’t the most personable person on the planet.”
“By design.” He pauses, looking out the window. “But, to answer your question, I don’t watch many movies.”
“That sucks for you. I love them. Most people love them. But if you ...” I look up to see the exit quickly approaching. “Crap.”
After a quick check of my blind spot, I whip the car into the right lane.
“What the hell are you doing?” Wade asks, his voice louder than necessary.
I glance over to see him holding the oh-shit handle.
“That’s my exit,” I say. I punch the gas and hit the off-ramp with little time to spare. “Whew. We almost didn’t make that one—but never fear. I got you.”
The engine roars as I decelerate and come to a stop at the light. Wade’s hand slowly releases the bar above the window.