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He smirked, and it spread into a grin. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well then, you’ll need an alter ego name. Maybe I’ll call you Willy?”
“Not on your life.”
“Can you at least talk with a special accent and low voice like Batman?”
“No,” he said as they stopped at a red light.
“C’mon William, you can’t be called ‘William’ all the time when you’re on assignment.Youneedsomething more fun. What if I just call you Dimples then?”
He gripped the steering wheel and stared ahead for a moment. When he turned to her, the tenderness of his expression nearly did her in. “I’ll tell you what, Lucy. You have special permission to call me Will when we’re on assignment.”
“Superhero Will who grew a beard and drives a truck. Sounds good to me.” She toyed with the hem of her skirt. “Tell me more about where we’re headed.”
He reached over and opened the glove box, grazing her uncovered knee with the back of his hand.
Inappropriate risqué thoughts about what harlot Barbie would like to do to Beach-loving Ken surged through her mind. She sucked in a hot breath as he handed her a brochure.
Get a grip. This is not a real wedding night.
“Fancy,” she drawled, flipping through the brochure. “How far is this place anyway?”
“An hour,” he replied.
She slid a sideways glance at him. An hour alone in a cramped space with William. She was amazingly awful at keeping her distance from him.
* * *
Rain from the night before had drenched the abundant potholes scattered along the cracked asphalt. Focused on the road ahead, William jerked the bowtie at his neck loose. Bridgett had decided they would “dress the part.”
Lucy hadn’t gotten that note. He’d rather not be in a tux, either, but the way Lucy’s jaw fell open when she saw him at the station made it worth it. Girls dug a man in a suit—he already knew that. Raise the stakes to a tuxedo and he’d hoped it might put a crack the armor she kept tight around herself.
So far, no luck.
“You’re quiet.” William briefly slid his gaze from the windshield to her and back to the country road leading to Twin Lakes.
Lucy had been studying that brochure for a while now. By his estimate, she’d read it cover to cover more than a dozen times. He’d intentionally left the radio off; confident she might be feeling chatty. She wasn’t.
“Not much to talk about, I guess.” She turned to him a little. “Maybe we should figure out our backstory. How we met. All that.”
“Where’s the fun in a pretend backstory? I’d rather get to know the real Lucy.”
He glanced to her again. A breeze from her open window blew strands of her hair loose from where she’d tied it up.
His fingers itched to tuck it behind her ear.
Hands at ten and two, bud. Hands at ten and two.
“No. I promise, I’m not interesting.” She frowned.
He begged to differ.
“Not true. If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a journalist—everyone’s interesting. Everyone’s got a story to tell.” In his experience, this was the truth that kept the industry moving. Find the story. Tell the story.
“Oh yeah? What’s your story then? The interesting parts?” She grinned his way.
The interesting part involved a ruined reputation and a now defunct reality TV show. Both things he wasn’t going to talk about. He’d spent years doing damage control. No way was he bringing it up now.
