Page 5 of Road Trip to Forever
“Double parked outside, so we better hightail it out of here. Let me take your bags.”
“I can handle them,” I say.
“Of course you can, but I want to help.” He reaches for the bigger one before I can argue, the handle jammed and the zipper on the large pocket halfway undone. He gives it a firm yank, and it pops to its full height. “How was your flight? Did you have the chicken or pasta? What movie did you watch? How was your seatmate? And the classes in Italy? Tell me everything.”
“Long but bearable. Chicken, since I’ve practically turned into a plate of gnocchi in my time away.”
“I would’ve picked the same. Nothing says fine dining like poorly reheated meat on an airplane.”
“Legally Blonde, thenMiss Congeniality.”
“You can never go wrong with a classic romcom.”
“My seatmate crocheted me a dinosaur, and I cried when they gave it to me. Look how cute it is.” I pull the trinket out of my purse and show him the purple and pink gift, complete with a scarf wrapped around its neck.
“That’s cute as hell. I’m so jealous. I’ve only ever gotten stuck next to people who like to steal my armrest.”
“The sewing class was great. The instructor liked my needlework,” I say.
“Not surprising. You’re a creative marvel.”
Patrick slings the bags into the back of his Jeep like they don’t weigh twelve pounds over the checked baggage allowance, accruing me an oversized-luggage charge at Fiumicino Airport earlier this morning. He opens the passenger side door and ushers me inside, ignoring the incessant honking coming from the car behind us. A white paper bag sits on the floorboard and I recognize the logo instantly, snatching it up with greedy hands.
“You brought me donuts?” I ask. “You tall, wonderful, thoughtful creature, you.”
“They come with a caveat.”
He slides into the driver’s seat and turns down the radio, a hit song from the early 2000s quieting through the speakers. Chocolate glazed is the first flavor I pull out and I sink my teeth into it, a murmur of ecstasy working its way from my mouth.
“Don’t care what it is,” I say around a second bite, crumbs spewing from my lips and landing on the dashboard. Patrick likes to keep his belongings clean, and I guiltily brush the mess away with a rogue napkin I find in the cup holder. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get another one of these.”
“Finish applying for the fashion show.”
I groan. “Noooo. I take it back. I’d do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”
“Okay, Meatloaf,” Patrick says. He flicks on his turn signal and merges into the steady stream of cars making their way toward the city. “Give me three reasons you shouldn’t apply.Goodreasons, not bullshit excuses.”
I pop the last piece of donut into my mouth and wash it down with a sip of water. “I could get rejected.”
“You could also get accepted,” he counters.
I narrow my eyes in his direction and he ignores my gaze, attention trained firmly on the road.
He planned this bombardment, buttering me up with sugary sweets. I bet he’s considered all the angles of my replies, a spreadsheet drawn up of my rebuttals, ranked in order from most likely to use as an argument to the least.
Dammit.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
“I don’t know what designs I would bring,” I say, grasping for anything that sounds mildly believable.
“You have a hundred outfits in your storage unit, half of which have never seen the light of—”
“The deadline is tonight.”
“Then it’s a good thing it’s only two in the afternoon and I’m taking you straight home.”
I stare out the window and let out a huff, feeling like a moody teenager not getting her way. “I hate when you’re logical. Fine.Fine. I’ll finish applying.”
