Page 56 of Road Trip to Forever
“Getting old has mellowed me out. I liked the aliens in that romance book you read to me. The blue ones.”
Romance book.
Like the hundreds he’s bought and kept for me, stowed away in his closetjust in case.
The painstaking time and energy he’s spent highlighting and underlining word after word until thousands of pages were full of colorful notes. The money he’s invested in something that’s not deeply personal to him, but deeply personal tome.
I can’t wait to go through the whole box when we get home. To see which lines he picked and if he added anything special in the margins on the pages. A surprise for me to find, maybe.
They don’t make people better than Patrick Walker.
“Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be sitting next to you on a road trip down to Florida, talking about blue aliens.” I drop my head back and laugh.
“I’m also your assistant for the week of the fashion show,” he says. “We’re checking all the boxes.”
“I don’t want you to feel obligated to jump in and help. This is a vacation for you.”
“So? I’m yours to use for the time we’re down there, Lo. To hand over your tape measure. I’ll follow you around with a thousand pushpins and hold the hems of dresses so you can make last-minute alterations. Whatever you need.”
I wrinkle my nose and frown. “I don’t like how that sounds. I never want to use you or make it seem like our friendship has one-sided benefits I’m taking advantage of.”
“It’s not one-sided. I get to spend the week with my favorite person in the world.” He reaches over and wraps his hand around my knee, fingers cool against my skin. “I’m yours, Lola. Plain and simple.”
Yours.
Who knew it only took five letters to make my heart skip a beat?
I wonder what Patrick would be like with no rules, no limitations.
Just mine.
SIXTEEN
PATRICK
“I’m starving.”
“Do you want to check into the hotel then find some food?”
“Please,” Lola says. “If I eat another Dorito, I swear I’m going to turn into one.”
“If you had to pick a Dorito to turn into, which would you pick? Cool Ranch, right?”
“Stop.” Lola giggles and holds her side. “I hate that you’re making me laugh. I’m so hungry, I think I might wither away.”
“We can’t have that. Hold on, Nacho Cheese. We’re almost there.”
I navigate us past the Capitol building and the monuments around the Tidal Basin. We sit in traffic across the George Mason Memorial Bridge and then roll into Arlington—where we’re staying for the next two nights—at a quarter past eight.
We find a parking spot in a suspicious-looking garage and load our bags onto a luggage cart with a squeaky back right wheel. Ten minutes later, with Lola’s cursive signature on the booking receipt, we’re checked in. The guy behind the front desk slides two keys our way and apologizes with a wry smile for any ghost rumblings we might hear during our stay. He directs us to the elevator behind the ice machine, with instructions to head up to the sixth floor and turn left.
I don’t miss the way he winks at Lola and blatantly ignores me. I want to grab him by the collar and shove him against the wall, scowling at his pushy assurance that he’s here foranythingshe needs and the way his eyes stay glued on her hips as we walk away.
I repeatedly hit the button for six until the elevator doors finally close.
“Are you okay?” Lola asks.
“That guy was a creep.”
