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Gray’s forearm brushes my knee as he reaches for his iPhone dock. He fiddles with his song selection before sitting back. Tom Petty’s “American Girl” floods the space. Gray gives me a cheeky grin, and I return it.
“Only half-American,” I say. “My mom’s a Brit.”
He chuckles. “Noted.”
For the entire song, we don’t speak but simply drive. It’s both odd and entirely normal. I have so much that I want to say to Gray now that we aren’t limited by texting. But it can wait. Something about him puts me at ease enough to just enjoy the moment.
“Can I ask you something?” he says when the song ends.
“When someone says that it’s usually because they’re about to insult you.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle in good humor. “Fair enough. And my question will probably be construed as insulting.”
“Mmm.” I fight a smile. I can’t help it; driving down the highway with Gray just makes me happy. “Go ahead then. But beware, I bite when provoked.”
“Promises, promises.” He grips the steering wheel, the ropey muscles in his thick forearms bunching. “Why did your dad get you this car? Don’t get me wrong, it’s got great styling for what it is and handles well. But I mean, you’ve got to be what?” Pink races up his cheeks as his gaze travels over my legs. “Six feet tall?”
He had to bring it up. Of course he did. I don’t think I’ve met a guy who hasn’t remarked on my height. But I act unaffected.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m a petite five foot twelve.”
Gray grins wide at my joke. It’s a good look for him. Lines bracket his mouth. They’re kind of like dimples but longer. Just as irresistible, though.
“Cute,” he says, changing lanes with confidence. “So, Little Miss Five-Twelve, why the clown car?”
I sigh and lean back against the seat, trying to find room for my legs. “I think my dad still sees me as his baby girl. And compared to him, I am small.”
“Shit, I’m small compared to your dad,” Gray says easily.
He’s exaggerating, but not by much. Dad has a few inches on him. Before my dad was an agent, he played center in the NBA. He might have gone into coaching, but Dad always liked the kill of the deal better than the stress of the game.
“Okay, but pink? It really doesn’t seem like your color,” Gray says with a pointed look at my clothes.
I’m wearing black skinny jeans, a white vintage the Cure concert tee, and red Chucks.
No, I’m not much for pink.
“There’s also the problem that he often confuses me with Fiona. As in, one Christmas I got Fi’s coveted Barbie Dream Townhouse, and she got my much-desired make-your-own-alien kit.” I shrug. “Now it’s cars. I’m stuck with a pink Fiat that I can barely squeeze into and little five-foot-three Fi’s swimming around in a black Acura MDX.”
“Shit.” Gray shakes his head. “That sucks, Mac.”
“The only consolation is that Fi is equally miffed.”
“Why don’t you guys just exchange cars?”
The million-dollar question.
I thrum my fingers against the windowpane. “First off, he bought us cars. How many kids can say that? We knew how lucky we were in that regard. And we didn’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings. Despite his faults, he’d be mortified if he realized his blunder. Dad tries, you know? He’s just...kind of clueless when it comes to us.”
Gray nods, but there’s a sadness in his expression that says he’s got no idea what it means to deal with a caring-yet-misguided parent.
Until now, we haven’t talked about family. I refrained because Gray plans to sign my dad as his agent.
Not wanting to bring down our happy mood, I lighten my tone. “Besides, I’m used to my little powder puff now. And just think—” I give his hard side a nudge with my elbow. “I’d never have seen you crammed into it if Dad had gotten it right.”
Gray laughs before ducking his head a bit. “Oh yeah, sure, that’s worth all the pain.”
“You know it, baby.”
