Page 11 of No Interest in Love

Her long hair brushes my arm.

And something in my brain wakes up.

She looks so damn soft. Her cheeks, the pale color of her skin, the feather-light bangs that move with the slightest breath of air. “Shay” and “soft” don’t go together. She’s a hardass. Seeing her up close like this almost makes me want to touch her to see if she’s real. A prickling sensation rises up in my chest, and suddenly my hyperaware senses shut off completely, like I’m under anesthesia. I may be drooling.

She reaches down by my leg, and I watch the movement with wide eyes, wondering why I haven’t said the smart-ass remark that’s on the back of my tongue. Oh, that’s right. I can’t find my tongue. It’s probably hanging out of the side of my mouth.

Her brows furrow, and she leans forward even farther, pushing me back into the seat. I count an unbelievably long six seconds before she yanks on her oversized bag. Then the air clears when she settles back in her seat.

“Can I borrow your phone?” she asks, digging through her purse.

“Wh-what’s wrong with yours?” I ask, and what the damn hell? My voice sounds like a thirteen-year-old going through puberty.

“Died while I was listening to Barry’samazingnews.” She sticks her middle finger up at her dead phone, making me laugh a little. “I was going to charge it at the airport.”

I clear my throat, coughing a bit to get rid of whatever is lodged in my chest, and dig in my pocket.

“Who’re you calling?” I ask, handing my phone over.

“My…” She stops, looking at the blank screen. “No one. Because your phone’s dead too.”

“Time to bang on the engine, then.”

A ghost of a smile hits her lips before it disappears. “Let’s wait it out,” she says, gesturing to the rain. “When it lightens, we can hitch a ride to the nearest gas station or something.”

“Yeah, all right,” I say, opting to agree instead of argue with her this time. My momentary cerebral lapse has me feeling a little off. So I slide down in the seat and kick my feet up, hoping she’ll give me a look or make me move them. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t even acknowledge how I’m sitting. She grabs at the bar under her own seat and slides it back. Then she turns on her side to face me, pulls her legs up to her chest, and starts rubbing her arms. We let out a collective sigh.

I’m already bored.

“Wanna fool around?” I tease. She lets out a small laugh through a giant yawn.

“Yeah. My boyfriend would love that.”

My neck spins around and my feet plop to the floor. “Youhave a boyfriend?”

One of her eyebrows rises. “Apparently I need to work on my sarcasm as much as you need to work on your tact.”

“I just didn’t think you scheduled time for any personal relationships.”

“You would be correct.” She takes off her glasses and sets them in her bag. “Doesn’t mean you have to be so surprised by it.”

“Sorry.” I grin. “So…no boyfriend?”

“Right.”

“You ever been in a relationship?” I ask, partly out of curiosity and mostly out of boredom. I’ve never seen Shay with someone in the years I’ve known her. But then again, I don’t know if I was really paying attention.

“No. I’m a nun. I just don’t wear my habit because black isn’t my color.”

“All right, Cujo. Don’t bark at me. I was just curious.”

“Haveyouever been in a committed relationship?”

“I didn’t say ‘committed.’ ”

“Well, I did.”

She tucks her legs closer to her body, and it’s amazing (and amusing) how she can look so demanding in the fetal position.

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