Don’t prepare me. I don’t need to be prepared.
GracieLou
PFFT. Because you’re so easygoing.
GreenArrow11
Well, well. Look who woke up this morning and chose violence.
GracieLou
Ooh, look at you, pretending you’re one of the cool kids with the new slang.
But I notice you didn’t say I was lying.
GreenArrow11
You noticed nothing of the sort.
GracieLou
Whatever you have to tell yourself.
I leave the bathroom in the Ground Transportation Center and follow the directions for the rental cars. The parking lot is empty, except for one vehicle: a tiny red compact car that looks like the Little Tikes Cozy Coupe my parents bought me for my third birthday. Man, I loved that thing. My mom held on to it for ages … and then sold it after the divorce when we had to downsize so dramatically.
I haven’t thought about that ride-on car in years.
The rest, I think about constantly.
Ollie Fletcher towers over this car in a way I never did even over that toy. The physics don’t add up—the roof barely reaches his ribs, and that’s to say nothing of his long limbs and absurdly broad shoulders. He’s the kind of tall, hot, and brooding I would have had an embarrassing crush on in high school. Good thing his personality is about as attractive as a root canal.
He’s reading something on his phone and giving a smile that makes him so handsome, I’m ready to ignore his personality, after all. But when he hears the light echo of my shoes in the parking garage, the smile vanishes. He pockets his phone with a scowl.
“Finally,” he says. “You ready?”
Fantastic. This is the punishment I get for wanting to dodge Dad’s party—stuck in a toy car with the one person on earth who makes me wish I wasn’t a declawed kitten.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say with a fake smile. “As long as you promise not to pick up hitchhikers.”
He gives me an “are you crazy?” look before ducking into the car.
I stick out my tongue after him.
Two days with this guy? Maybe I’ll find those claws after all.
Or maybe I’ll throw myself from a moving vehicle.
Whichever comes first.
CHAPTER FIVE
FLETCH
Idon’t fit in this car.
My head’s jammed against the roof, my knees are strangling the steering wheel, and if I take a deep breath, the airbag’s going to go off. I can’t even turn the wheel without elbowing the window, no matter how I contort myself.
“How am I supposed to fit?” I ask, pulling the lever beneath the seat and moving forward and back to no avail. I smack the steering wheel.
