Page 36 of Over & Out

I open my mouth to give her shit about that, but she’s going off on this car too. Only this time, she might as well be writing it a love poem. She glides her hands over the smooth lines of the vehicle in a way that I swear to God is making me physically jealous of a machine.

“There were only seventy-seven of these made! Ever!” Her expression is like a drug. I’ve dabbled in several bad choices in my life, so I know what I’m talking about. “Seven hundred fifty horsepower!” she exclaims. “Zero to sixty in four seconds.”

“Three point five,” I mumble.

She laughs, and I actually feel the sound inside of me. Little jingly bells that bounce around in my belly. That’s when I start to sweat again. I place my hands on my hips like I’m admiring the car too. But my mind is freaking out. My superpower is turning off inappropriate feelings. It comes from years of watching my dad hit on everything that moved while on set with me while my mom sat at home, so far away it hurt. I refused to be anything like him. Ever. So I learned early on to contain even the earliest nascent hints of attraction until I’m sure we both feel the same way. But with Chris? All my systems are fried. All the needles are in the red. With anyone else, I can turn attraction off like a tap. But this tap? It’s a goddamned firehose. I want to take it back, to cover this car up with a blanket and insist we drive in some kind ofplain beige sedan, which, of course, I don’t have. Or, I don’t know, call a fucking cab. Get out the bicycles.

But making her happy makes me feel like an idiot moth flapping my wings as I head to a fiery bug-light death. And Chris is already climbing into the Aston Martin. Things only get worse—particularly for my pained lower half—when she opts not to use the door and instead hoists herself onto the open window frame. Her skirt slips dangerously high as she swings her legs into the car. As she drops into the driver’s seat, I swear to God I feel a jolt of pleasure so strong I think I’m perilously close to begging her to get out just so she’ll do the whole thing again.

Chris looks up at me, grinning like the she-devil she is. “Well? Are you getting in or are you just going to stand there like a half-cooked noodle?”

I think I should probably die right now. Just cross my arms over my chest and expire. That would be easier than this.

“Yes, I’m getting in.” I jerk my sunglasses out of my pocket and plant them on my face. “I’m using the door too. It works like this.” I open it and slump into the passenger seat, pulling my hat down low since I’m failing at hiding all these feelings playing out on my face. Someone needs to take away my actor card.

I relax a little once Chris revs the engine. At least we’ll be on the road in a minute, and soon after that, we’ll be in a work meeting I’ll be co-leading. That should distract me, right?

But when she pulls out of the garage a moment later,she doesn’t peel out like I was sure she would. Instead, she goes as slowly and tentatively as a granny.

“Hoo, boy,” I say, tipping the passenger seat back a notch. Thank God I was wrong about how she’d drive. This hesitancy is cute, not sexy. “All bark and no bite, huh?” I pull out my phone. “Should I tell them we’ll be there at noon?”

“I’m being safe.” Chris flicks on the turn signal, even though we’re alone. Then she slowly bumps us onto the street.

“You’re being geriatric.” I laugh. “What did I say earlier?” I rub my chin. “Small-town girl. Slow as f?—”

But my words are cut off, my hand flying off my face as my head presses hard into the back of my seat. Chris has smoothly geared us up to speed in a matter of seconds.

We’re now flying down the empty road, Chris laughing at my expression.

“The fuck, bangles?” I squeak out.

“What’s the matter, Donnach?” She grips the wheel with one hand, hugging the shoulder with the precision of a drafter. “You scared?”

Yes, I think. Yes I fucking am. Only not for the reason she thinks.

Chapter 12

Chris

Of course we arrive in Swan River with plenty of time. I didn’t even break the speed limit.

Much.

“You’re lucky there was no traffic,” Hopper grumbles as I slip into my parking spot with my hand flat on the wheel, practically whistling.

There wassometraffic, including a stop at a red light where a bunch of kids in a minivan next to us started freaking out and pointing. Hopper, notoriously unfriendly when it comes to autographs—according to the media—rolled down the window and posed for a selfie before returning to his phone like that was completely normal. But that didn’t hold me up. Neither did the stop-and-go traffic a few minutes before we got here. I’m taking the win. I’m going to think about his slack-jawed face as I took the car to speed for days. Any time I need a pick-me-up, really.

“We had plenty of time,” I say.

Hopper slides me a look but says nothing.

I laugh. I think we might just be finding our groove.

A woman walks by with a stroller just then, and I’m reminded I meant to ask Cindi about Tru’s baby shower. I know Hopper will probably be useless about this, but I ask him anyway.

“I don’t suppose you have a link to Tru’s baby registry?”

“Her what now?”

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