Page 21
He stares at the road, jaw flexing. “Blue.”
“Ah-ah.” I make a tally mark. “Elaborate. More than one word. Like…what shade of blue? Navy, turquoise, sad little boy blue, or hyper masculine Ford F-series blue?”
“Navy,” he grunts.
“Beau, come on.” I mark it down. “Okay, another question. Biggest irrational fear?”
A pause. Then, “Bats.”
“Bats! Like, the animal? Not baseball?”
His grip on the wheel tightens. “The animal.”
I burst out laughing. The image of Beau—six feet of man, all muscle and brooding—cowering from a bat is too good. “Outstanding. Why bats?”
He sighs, and for a second I think he won’t answer. But then, “I was six. Mom’s boyfriend didn’t believe in pest control. Whole trailer got infested.”
I shift in my seat, turning toward him as much as the seat belt allows. “That’s…horrifying.”
He gives a tight nod, eyes on the road. “My turn.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
He’s got a wicked little glint in his eye now, like he’s starting to enjoy this. “The tattoo on your wrist. What’s it for?”
I glance down. “Hope,” I say. It’s tiny. Just a fine-line paintbrush tilted at an angle with a single droplet of color falling from the tip. “You got any?”
He shakes his head. “Needle phobia.”
I squint at him. “You’re covered in scars and afraid of needles?”
He glances at me, face deadpan. “Scars are accidental. Needles are on purpose.”
I whoop, full belly laugh, and watch his lips curl reluctantly. There it is—an actual smile.
“Oh! I have a good one. Can I ask, even though it isn’t my turn?”
He quirks a brow. “Has that ever stopped you?”
“Well…no. Good point. First kiss story. Go.”
He grimaces. “Not interesting.”
I feign outrage. “You wound me! Even tragic first kisses are excellent content. Details, Sinclair.”
He exhales like I’m yanking out his molars, then says, “Seventh grade. Cassandra. She cried after.”
“Wow,” I say, “so good it brought her to tears, huh?”
“She bit my tongue,” he mutters, glowering at the road.
I dissolve into giggles. “Aw, poor baby. Traumatized by Cassandra the Tongue Terrorist.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling again. A real one this time.
I’m kind of high on it.
At some point, the hum of the truck and steady rhythm of the highway lulls me into a hazy nap. My head rests against the window, legs curled up, Beau’s flannel draped over me like a security blanket I’m pretending I don’t need.
