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“No,” I groaned, fake gagging when awareness dawned on me. “Go away.”
“Night, Shan,” he chuckled, closing out my door.
“Be safe!” I called after him. “I’m too young to be an auntie!”
My phone vibrated against my thigh, alerting me to an incoming call from Claire.
“Hello?” I said, pressing it to my ear.
“Hey chick-a-bee,” she said happily. “What are you doing next weekend?”
Climbing off my bed, I hurried over to my door and turned the lock.
“Nothing,” I replied. Like always. “Why?”
“Because, my dear friend, Gerard Gibson passed his theory test on Friday morning and some demented idiot at the tax office decided to give him a provisional driver’s license.”
“Really?” I laughed, thinking about Gibsie behind the wheel of a vehicle.
“Oh yeah,” Claire sighed. “I’ve just spent the last hour and a half trying to shove him out of my bedroom.”
“Why was he in your room?”
“To gloat,” she explained. “Shaking his little green license around like he was king of the hill.”
“What does Gibsie getting his driving license have to do with next weekend?”
“His parents bought him a car for his birthday last week,” she explained. “He wants all of us to go for a spin with him.”
My brows shot up. “Who’s all of us?”
“The usual gang,” Claire replied breezily. “Me, Gerard, Hughie, Katie, Pierce, Lizzie, Patrick, Johnny, and you of course.”
My heart leaped at the sound of Johnny’s name being mentioned. And then it rocketed even further at the prospect of spending actual time with him.
“Why me?” I managed to ask.
“Duh, because you’re our friend,” she replied.
I shook my head. “No, Claire, I’m your friend. Yours and Lizzie’s.”
“Well, Gerard told me to invite you along.”
“Why?” I strangled out. “He doesn’t know me.”
“You helped him with Brian.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make us friends.”
“Well, he knows you’re my best friend,” she explained. “Which means any invitations I receive automatically extend to you, too.”
“Well, he can’t fit all those people in one car.”
“Then maybe you can go in Johnny’s car,” Claire shot back in a teasing tone. “By the way, I saw you with him on the pitch Friday, you little flirt.”
“I was not flirting with him,” I practically spluttered. “He came up to me.”
“Better again.” She giggled. “He was the one doing the flirting.”
