Chapter Eight
Luke
Cassidy clutches the Jetta’s oh-shit bar and shoots a pointed look my way as I tap the brakes.
“What, am I driving too fast?”
“Au contraire, sir. Your slowness is a hazard. And you can’t brake like that in the fast lane.”
I squeeze the wheel in defiance. “I was creeping above the speed limit! I had to slow down. That’s what brakes are for.”
“The ‘limit’ depends on the flow of traffic. It’s flexible.”
“Oh, good, I was hoping you’d be a backseat driver.”
“Passenger’s seat, actually.” She props her shiny white boots on the dash.
In the half an hour we’ve been driving, she’s managed to fully move into this vehicle as if it’s a tiny home. A puffy hair band is wrapped around the shifter. The tube of lipstick she dug out of her pocket was reassigned to the hollowed-out nook beneath the radio. Her scent fills the car, something vaguely floral I first discovered while she hovered near me during the world’s most dysfunctional four-way phone call. Maybe it’s her shampoo, used on the hair she’s now actively brushing with her fingers. I can’t place the flower—I’m not a fucking botanist—but it’s strong. It lingers.
This car is small.
“Do you like road-trip games?” she asks brightly.
“Such as?”
She points at the windshield with her foot. “License plate game. Look, there’s Missouri. And that Honda? Also Missouri.” A second passes. “Three more Missouris. Weird how this state doesn’t have more visitors.”
“I don’t play road-trip games.”
Her jaw drops. “Not even the ABC game?”
“Nope.”
“Unfathomable.” She stretches her arms behind her. A deep sigh leaves her mouth.
Her legs move and stretch, too. I side-eye her, reluctantly acknowledging the reality of her work-honed body. Every movement is slow, fluid, even sensual, punctuated by sharp bursts of energy.
She’s a dancer, all right.
I fix my focus on the horizon.
“I’ve got a few true crime and unsolved mystery podcasts downloaded,” she offers. “Is that more your speed?”
“Those podcasts are depressing.”
She scoffs. “No, they aren’t! They’re psychologically revealing. No better way to learn about the human condition than to try to get in the heads of as many different people as possible to figure out what makes them tick.”
“I’d like to know less about the human condition, frankly. What about sci-fi? I’ve got Audible and a ton of options. Now that is interesting content.”
She squirms in her seat. “You should road trip with my stepfather, Rand. You two could take turns driving ten under as you discuss the livability of Mars.”
“Hey, how about the Quiet Game? Allow me to explain the rules. For the next twenty-four hours—”
“Nah.” She cranks the AC. “I always lose.”
The sky is gloomy. We checked the doppler before we pulled out of the lot and agreed that skewing our route north through Kansas was worth avoiding the storms barreling through Oklahoma. Anything to avoid getting swallowed by a tornado.
“So, Luke.” She is almost on her side facing me but still belted in somehow. “Tell me about yourself.”
My pulse trips under the spotlight of her full attention. It reminds me of every forced mixer in college where I inevitably mumbled something nonsensical before passing the proverbial baton.
All it took was one time revealing too much to the wrong people to ensure I never made that mistake again. I squeeze the wheel. “Not much to tell.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
I hit her with a surefire distraction. “What about music? I bet you’ve got lots of good stuff, being a choreographer and all.”
She perks up.
Bingo.
“You’re letting me choose the music? That’s quite a sacrifice. What if I’m into weird stuff?”
“I’m not too concerned. According to Berkeley, your taste skews…what was it? Soft focus?”
Her laugh is full. “You’re funny. No matter what everyone who has ever met you probably thinks. I’ll hook up my Bluetooth—whoa, again, with the brakes? Maybe change lanes before that Dodge mows you over.”
I flick the blinker. “Maybe that’s my goal.”
“Is that a joke?”
“I guess we’ll never know.” I stretch my stiff neck. “I’m going to stop at the first decent gas station. The tires need air.”
She crosses one leg over the other. “Is that a big deal? We just got on the road.”
“Tire blowouts lead to a surprising amount of accidents.”
“That’s a very niche tidbit to pull out of thin air. You a tire hobbyist, Luke?”
I adjust the rearview mirror. “I’m an actuary.”
“Actuary. Right. I definitely know what that is.”
“My company does a lot of work for insurance companies. Which means I know an unfortunate amount about cars.” I shake my head to dislodge the horrific things I’ve learned about accidents over the last few years. “Not exactly the kind of factoids you’d want to hear while inside of one.”
“In fairness, I’d never want to hear unfortunate car factoids, even if I was in the middle of an open field.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Didn’t mean to make you anxious.”
She pivots in her seat, and her gaze burns a hole in the side of my face. “No need to apologize. It’s actually kind of nice to know you are capable of empathizing with my feelings, though. Like maybe you aren’t a sociopath after all.”
I roll my eyes. “I wish you’d stop assuming the absolute worst of me. Or at least activate your filter and keep it to yourself.”
A small pause follows my statement, where it would be silent, if not for the rhythm thumping through the speakers.
“You’re right.” Her tone falters. “For the sake of this thing we’re not calling a road trip, I’ll work on keeping my thoughts to myself.”
If she’s going for lighthearted, she misses it by a country mile. And when she doesn’t proceed to offer anything else, tension invades the car. She retracts her legs, hugs her knees to her chest, and casts her gaze out the window. It’s like a partition slammed shut between us.
Somehow, without meaning to, I’ve burst her enthusiastic bubble, not even thirty minutes into this drive.
Will was right about one thing on FaceTime: I’m usually the most responsible person in any room. I’m also the quietest—for a reason. Give me tasks, concrete deliverables, and deadlines over small talk any day. I always clam up or say the wrong thing. Hence my preference for numbers, which never make you look like an asshole.
My primary conversation partner is Will, and he and I are routinely assholes to each other for fun. Apart from him and my trips home, I’ve been mostly alone since my disastrous relationship with Genevieve ended a year ago. And work hardly counts because I could do that in my sleep.
I think I’ve forgotten how to do this with a woman. Especially one as expressive as Cassidy.
Not that I’m trying to do anything with Cassidy other than tread water in this car.
She still hasn’t said a word when I pull into the Love’s station. The yellow sign cuts through the fog, a beacon, the bright hue almost mocking the thick cloud cover.
An uncomfortable shifting happens in my chest as I throw the car into park next to a pump and turn to face her. She’s reading something on her phone and doesn’t look back at me, even when I clear my throat.
Well then.
I steal a look at my phone as I contemplate what might’ve pissed her off.
Three texts from Will await me. The first is a link to a Spotify playlist.
Sensual Slow Jams.
The second:
She seems nice…
Followed by:
And attractive. And willing to get in your car. You should ask her out when you get here.
I shove the phone back in my pocket.
Will knows I don’t date. Not right now. My life, schedule, and priorities leave no room for it, and after my ex made it clear that no woman would ever tolerate splitting my attention with my family and work, I’m not interested in trying. My family demands aren’t changing any time soon, and work is only getting more intense now that Rogelio is talking about expanding.
I’m no longer interested in flings, either. Those experiences drained me in more ways than one. Some were fun but left me feeling hollow, others were terrifying when the women turned out to have secret boyfriends or husbands, and one memorable date cost me thousands of dollars after the girl robbed my house while I was driving to pick up to-go food after sex. I had to buy a new TV, computer, and watch.
Bottom line, if I like a person, I’m emotionally all in. But since long-term isn’t on the table, I’m at an impasse.
Best to avoid any and all of that, at least until Rogelio decides when he’s going to open a California location. It’ll probably be years until he feels I’m ready to run it. Maybe then I’ll find the elusive balance required to date, when I’m calling the shots at work and close enough to my family that I don’t have to stress about unexpected emergencies or trips home.
I tap the center console. “You want to top off the tank while I run in? I’ve got to grab quarters for their archaic air machine. I’ll pay for the next full tank. Sound good?”
“Sure,” she mutters.
Yep. I fucked up.
I rack my brain for a viable fix. “Want a coffee? You never did get a famed Java Juice cappuccino.”
At this, her eyes flicker with interest. “Oh. That would be nice, thanks.”
“How do you take it?”
“One sweet cream, one Irish cream, and one hazelnut. The little plastic tubs. Stir until delightfully beige.”
“Three different creamers? Thank God you’re not driving, wild thing.”
A flicker of a smile plays out on her full lips. Relief washes over me.
Because we have a long way to go, and the last thing I need is a cranky co-pilot. Not because I like her smile.
“I come from a long line of coffee mixologists,” she explains. “It’s in my blood.”
I blink. “Really?”
She tosses her phone in the center console. “God, you’re easy. No, blending creamers is not a family legacy. My mother would never be caught dead with an ounce of dairy in her coffee. Baileys, maybe. If you can count that.”
“I’d say Baileys counts as dairy. It may even be a viable source of calcium.”
Her easy laugh returns. “Yes, I’m sure that’s why people drink it. For the nutrients.”
Speaking of. “We’ll be on the road until Kansas City. Do you want any food? I don’t plan to stop for breakfast because I want to beat the weather, so it’s gas station food or bust.”
She cradles her stomach. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“Full from all the not-eating you did at the airport?”
“Yup. Stuffed.”
Her phone springs to life, vibrating and shouting Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice” at top volume. A contact photo of a woman in a huge floppy hat pops up on the screen.
Francesca Bliss.
I arch a brow. “No one on earth talks on the phone more than you.”
The humor melts off her face. “I better take this.” As she reaches for it, she catches my eye. “Do me a favor: if I’m still on this call when you get out, pretend to have a heart attack or something to get me out of it.”
I laugh.
She doesn’t.