Traffic is light now that I’m out of the city, so I back into the intersection, to the right turn I initially intended to make.
“No. I’m not late.” The total lack of sureness in my voice says otherwise, but for some reason I don’t care. “And you’ve gotta be shitting me. I was on my way to Royal Grounds.”
She shifts, leaning her back against the door so her whole body faces me.
“I’m almost always late, to the extent that people would probably be disappointed if I was on time.” She regards the photo in her hand. “I’m glad I’m not taking you out of your way, but just in case…” She opens the window and tosses out the evidence of her photo ambush of me. “If you try to kill me in the next two miles, that picture exists, and someone will find it—with both our fingerprints on it.”
I throw my head against the back of my seat and laugh, this time ignoring the pain. “Yeah, Saturday morning in the suburbs is prime murder-your-hitchhiker-on-the-way-for-coffee time. I thought you said you trusted my eyes.”
She shrugs. “You never can be too safe.”
Safe. I let the word hang in the air for a few seconds before responding. “And hitchhiking is safe?”
She sighs. “I like to think of myself as a creative transportation enthusiast.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing if someone does it,” she starts. “I’m doing it, so it’s a thing.”
“Is it a thing you do on a regular basis?”
Her smirk fades. “No.” Her eyes roam around the car. “Please tell me this is a hybrid or some newfangled electric beast.”
Nice change of subject, Pippi.
I open my mouth to speak but first pet the dashboard lovingly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. She didn’t mean it. You’re not a beast.” I glance at my passenger who doesn’t share my affection for the vehicle that saved her from the early November chill. “No. It’s not a hybrid. It’s a car that gets me through Minnesota winters. Why?”
She taps her index finger on her pursed lips. “What you must spend on gas, not to mention your carbon footprint—”
“Uh, says the girl who just tossed a photograph, probably loaded with less-than-environmentally-friendly chemicals, out my window,” I interrupt. “Plus, I’m giving you a ride, and you trash-talk my girl? Yes, cars do have gender, and this one is most certainly a girl. My girl. Why are you betraying the beast that’s getting you where you need to go?”
I fix my stare straight ahead and blow out a long breath. I never have to defend my truck. Everyone loves the truck. Girls love the truck, especially how roomy it can be reclining on a summer night, stars shining through the moon roof, and yeah. No one’s ever complained about gas mileage or carbon footprint. In fact, I’ve heard nothing but praise. Plus, I can rattle off a list of people grateful for my beast towing their sedans from snowy ditches.
Her eyes grow distant. “My grandfather was a mechanic. He hated SUVs. Some things you don’t forget.”
Her voice bears an echo of sadness, and a small part of me wants to ask about her grandfather while the rest of me says, Dude, get her where she needs to go before you’re late. I shake my head. Maybe I’m more hung over than I think.
“I didn’t get your name,” I say as we pull into the coffee shop’s crowded parking lot. “I’m Griffin.” I extend a hand to shake, the gesture awkward and unfamiliar now that she’s already had her palm on my face.
When she doesn’t reciprocate, I lean back and release my seat belt.
“What are you doing?” she asks, alarm taking over her features for the first time since she stepped into the car of a stranger.
I rub the back of my neck, brows raised. “Getting coffee?” The words are meant to come out as a statement, but the tenseness in her shoulders stops me in my tracks.
She lets out a breath and smiles, the expression forced. “My treat,” she says. “For giving me the lift. How do you take it?”
“Double-shot cappuccino.”
“I’ll be right back, Fancy Pants.” And she’s out of the truck before I can protest.
Fancy Pants? Fuck. I look at my pressed khakis, the ironed-in crease down the middle, the freaking neon sign of who I am no matter how much I ignore it. I’m the same asshole I was before Scotland. What did Jordan call me? A man-whore with heart. I’ve done a good job since my return to lose the last part of that phrase. But at the end of this year I’ll be exactly who my parents raised me to be, Griffin Reed Jr., MBA-bound and tied to the plan they set in place for me when I was a freshman in high school.
But I’m not that guy yet.
And for some reason I give a shit that this girl knows me for two minutes and thinks she has me pegged.