Page 59 of Fan Favorite

“You’re gonna drive this thing?” Edie peered at him. “Do you even know how to drive?”

“Of course I know how to drive!”

“I’ve only ever seen you ferried around in the back of a Navigator in big sunglasses, like you’re Lindsay Lohan or something.”

“Pepper, you wound me. My sunglasses are appropriately sized. Now get in the car.” He placed a hand on her warm back and ushered her toward the back seat.

“Aren’t you the big, important showrunner?” she protested. “Don’t you have other shit to do?”

He did, in fact, have other shit to do. And there were a million people paid to deal with things like driving contestants around, so Peter was free to deal with the shit he had to do. But for some reason, while he stood on the sidelines watching Edie on the monitors, he couldn’t stop thinking about the hurt way she’d looked at him just before she fell out of the limo. Not to mention the pointed anger that had powered that punch to his gut. And as he’d brooded, watching Bennett hold Edie in his arms, suddenly Peter felt deeply unsettled. And because Peter didn’t like to sit in a feeling for too long, and because he orchestrated over-the-top gestures for a living, this funny little chauffeur moment was almost instinctual in its conception. It hadn’t been difficult to come up with. Or execute. Frankly, it was no big deal. Just Peter utilizing his talents to make things right between them, totally detached from feeling.

“Here I am, trying to do a nice thing, letting everyone leave early, and you insult me. I’ll have you know I’m an excellent driver.” He prepared to close the door behind her. “As long as we don’t make any right turns, we’ll be fine.”

“Oh no,” she said, struggling to get back out. “No way. If I’m dying tonight, I’ll stare death in the face. I’m sitting up front with you.”

“Fair enough.” Peter trotted around and opened the passenger door.

“Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?” She looked around at the deserted street. “And where are the cameras? Where’s Ted?”

“I’m always nice,” he said, wounded.

“Sure you are, Mr. I-Went-to-Brown-and-Your-Beauty-Isn’t-Intersectional.”

“Still not over that?”

“Not quite.”

“Have I mentioned how lovely you look tonight, Pepper? Everyone thinks so—”

“You’re making it worse. Just get in the car.”

But the way she said it—just get in the car—was like she was amused, and then his own misgivings—like the lingering confusion over why he’d gotten into that limo with her earlier, or why he’d insisted on Bailey for the next date when a decision like that clearly undermined everything they were working toward, or the way Jessa had looked at him when he announced he was going to drive Edie back to the mansion himself—faded away as Edie slid into the front seat and her dress split open, exposing her bare legs. Peter tried not to stare and instead closed the door behind her, running around to the other side, where he was immediately stabbed to death by the daggers Jessa was glaring at him from the top of the staircase. He tipped his cap to her and got in the car.

It took Peter a second to locate the ignition (fine, it had been years since he’d driven himself anywhere) and then he spent a stupid amount of time tweaking the mirrors because it felt like something Seth Rogen or John Krasinski would do when a cute girl was watching.

Finally, he turned the key. “Last chance to call an Uber.”

“I don’t even have a phone. You took it, remember?”

“Right,” he said with a shrug. “Stuck with me, then.”

Peter plunged the limo into drive, and they began making their way down the moonlit streets of Beverly Hills. While he hunched over the steering wheel, an unconvinced Edie flipped down the visor and felt around. Popped open the glove compartment and rifled through the registration papers, fast-food napkins, and breath mints. Knocked on the console, as if expecting a secret compartment to reveal itself.

“For real. Where’d you hide the cameras?”

“No cameras,” he said, keeping his hands at ten and two and his eyes on the road. Now that the limo was in motion, the reality of his romcom-inspired gesture was hitting him. It would be a big problem if he crashed the limo. Fuck, he realized somewhat belatedly, eventually he’d have to get on the 405!

“You forget I’m a founding member of the Lady Dicks, Chicago’s premier feminist true crime detective club. I’ve completed enough Hunt a Killer boxes to know everything’s a play. What gives?”

“In fact, I haven’t forgotten the Lady Dicks. Your description of the seven-layer dip is seared into my memory.”

“Don’t be judgy. You’d love a Midwestern potluck. So much cheese.”

“I’m lactose intolerant.”

“You would be.”

He tore his eyes from the road and caught her smirking. “Savage,” he said, shaking his head. They laughed.

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