Page 85 of Summer with My Sexy Ex
I already know I don’t have one with me, so I rush to the front desk to see what they have. “Do you have any colored markers or Sharpies in maybe a teal color?”
“I don’t think so,” the woman says. “But let me look.” She pulls open the drawer in front of her and roots around a bit. “Doesn’t look like it, no.”
“Any art supplies or crayons for kids? Anything like that?”
She shakes her head. “You’d have to go down to the general store for those things.”
“Is that by the marina?”
“Kind of. You can go to the marina, but then you want to turn left and keep going until you run into Parker Street. All the shops are located there.”
“Great, thank you so much!” I turn to rush back to the conference room and then remember, “Can we still use the golf cart?”
“Yep, the whole time you’re here, pretty much.”
“Great, thanks again.” I return to the room and tell Blake and Wyatt the good news.
“Can you guys get pens while I unpack the bags we already stuffed?” Blake sounds despondent. I feel so bad for him.
“Of course,” I say. “Whatever you need.”
“Why does it take two of us to buy pens?” Wyatt asks. “I’ll just stay and help you undo the bags.”
“So you can go to more than one store at a time,” Blake says like it’s obvious. “Plus, I need to call Taylor and tell her about the typo. You don’t want to be around for that conversation.”
Wyatt nods.
He follows me to the golf cart and protests when I get behind the wheel. “Nope. I’m driving.”
“Why are you driving?” I ask.
“Because.” Again with the tone. I really hate it when he thinks I should just do what he says if he says it.
Blanche:Unless we’re naked.
True. But that isn’t now.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” I say again. “And you’d better get in, or I’ll just leave without you.”
Wyatt glares at me. I can tell he’s pissed and wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He gets in the passenger seat, and I drive toward ‘town.’ It takes less than two minutes before I regret not letting him drive.
wyatt
“Slow down,for fuck’s sake. You’re going to topple the cart,” I say as she takes another corner too fast, and we slide into it.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Brie says. “These carts don’t tip over.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? These things are death traps, they tip all the time. High center of gravity, low tiny wheels, you’re just asking for an accident.”
She looks at me and mimics my words as she takes the next right-hand turn.
It happens like it’s slow motion.
The front tire hits the corner curb as she’s rounding it. The back tires slide and catch, the cart struggles to follow the directions of the wheel, and we start to go over. I grab Bristol around the waist and yank her to me as I jump out. The golf cart topples and slides to a stop on its side.
