Page 30 of How You See Me
“Agreed, but I’ll fit in the front seat better than you.”
He scowls, not enjoying the cracks I’m chiseling into his set-in-stone plan. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
“Where?”
“The first stop.”
“I figured that, smarty pants. I meant, which city are we stopping in first?”
“Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.”
An unfiltered squeal tumbles out of me. He flinches, and I slap a hand over my mouth to prevent another one. But too much brewing excitement has me reaching for his arm. “Are we going to Dollywood tomorrow?”
“Maybe. I'm not—”
I don’t stick around for the rest of that potential backtracking. I’m already gone, racing down the hall like a kid on Christmas morning, giving him time to stew on the idea.
Chapter 7
Hayes
What have I done?
I’m staring down the hallway where Josie disappeared into a room, humming like she’s not a walking contradiction.
One touch. That’s all it took for me to fold. I already know she’ll get what she wants. And yeah, technically, I can accomplish something on Ava’s list at Dollywood. Win-win. But it doesn’t sit right. If I’m already giving in to her this easily, how the hell am I supposed to last a week without giving it all away?
Josie jogs across the hall in a blur, carrying a pile of clothes.
“Have any instructions for cleaning up?” I call before the door closes.
She pokes her head out, and I point toward the chaos shecalls creativity.
“Not really. There’s some paint thinner under the sink if the palette’s crusty. You’re the best.”
Not helping.
She disappears again.
I work fast, scrubbing at our dinner dishes with too much force, jaw clenched, trying not to think about her potentially naked in the next room.
Nope. Not thinking about her impeccable skin.
For something safer, I head to the mess of brushes, palettes, and a thousand little bottles of paint that all look the same to me. It takes over ten minutes to organize it. She’ll probably think I went overboard but the disarray and dysfunction were making my eye twitch.
Lost with nothing to do, I drift toward the open pantry door. I should leave it be, but the closet is another nightmare. A hybrid food stash/art bunker/coat rack hellscape. No rhyme, no reason, and absolutely no order.
I go to close the door, but something uncharacteristic stands out among the madness—strange black markings on the cereal boxes. Flowers growing out of mascots and block lettering. Tiny scarves drawn around cartoon necks. Each one altered, personalized, and perfected.
I pull down a box, then another. She didn’t doodle on one or two. She’s transformed every damn thing. Even the boring box of brown sugar. It’s not boring anymore.
Curiosity gets the best of me. I dig through the recycling bin, and sure enough—smiling snakes where green beans should be. Coins instead of carrots. Everything is touched by her marker, her imagination, her hands.
Can she be any more . . . adorable?
The bedroom door opens, and I drop the empty carrot can. She emerges still barefoot, but now wearing pink cotton shorts and a polka-dotted tank top that hugs every curve.
She waves, totally unaware of the grenade she tossed into my bloodstream, and tiptoes to the bathroom.
