“Spicy Cheetos go down the hatch, pal, not back up.”
“Pfft. You don’t know what you’re missing.” He holds the bag out in front of me. I grab a single sunflower seed and chew. “No,” he says, “you don’t grab one. You grab a handful.”
“But aren’t you supposed to separate the shells in your mouth? How do you do that?”
“You keep the seeds in one side of your mouth and the shells in the other. Like this,” he explains patiently. And my mind starts to wander, thinking about Oliver’s private kind streak—the way he got protective on the plane when the creep on my other side started flirting, the way he swapped meals with me when I’m almost certain he didn’t like the chicken fried steak. Him doing planks and wall sits with me instead of being madthat I was delaying us. Him trading faces with the little boy at breakfast. Talking to me, finding ways to keep me awake, worrying about me.
And that kiss …
As he demonstrates how to properly chew sunflower seeds, I can’t help watching his jaw move, his lips purse, his eyes on mine.
Oliver Fletcher is a good person.
And agreatkisser.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FLETCH
Poppy is always cute.
But she’s never cuter than when she’s tired. If anything, it makes her more … joyful. Even sweeter.
Not the syrupy kind of sweet, which I wouldn’t be able to tolerate. Justkind. Complimentary. It’s like this is Poppy at her purest form.
It’s 1:30 a.m., and we’re in eastern Ohio, approaching the Pennsylvania border. We were forced off I-71 hours ago when an accident closed the freeway, routing us through the winding country roads of Amish country. It’s probably scenic during better circumstances. The weather has taken a turn, though, so it’s slow going, and every weather alert and warning sign about black ice only makes it worse.
“I shouldn’t have let you keep driving,” I say, hiding a yawn. She slows to pass a horse and buggy, the driver barely visible under a heavy coat and hat. “We’re stopping at the first hotel available.”
“It’s fine,” she says, her posture way too good for how late it is. Her eyes tell me she’s tired, but her smile just won’t stop. Honestly, I think it’s infecting me, because when I’m not grumbling about the weather, I find myself strangely buoyant. “I’m from Rochester!” she says.
“Yeah, but you usually drive a truck with snow tires, not a raspberry with bald tires,” I say.
She grins, biting her bottom lip like she’s trying to hide how pleased she is. “You’re cute for remembering what I said.”
“Oh, did you say that? I didn’t know.”
“My mistake,” she says, but she doesn’t wipe the smile off her face. I’m not sure she can.
My legs are stiff from being cramped in the car for coming on eighteen hours.
Eighteen hours.
How has she handled driving for so long? If I’m this uncomfortable just sitting, I can imagine how much worse it is for her. “How are you holding up so well?”
“It’s easy,” she says. “We both have something big waiting when we get home.”
Did her eyes tense when she said that, or am I imagining things? Maybe she’s feeling some of the same disappointment I am that after tomorrow …
After tomorrow …
“Hey, we don’t have each other’s numbers,” I say with all the nonchalance of a man asking a woman for her digits in the middle of the night. It’s a good thing she’s so focused on the road, or she’d see how flushed my stupid cheeks are. “With us staying in separate rooms when we get to Cleveland, we’ll need to coordinate. For breakfast, and stuff.”
The excuse is so weak, it can barely stand. Poppy’s cheeks rise even higher. “I love that idea,” she says.
How is she even warmer than usual? More open? What’s it like for her, walking around with her heart on her sleeve? I wondered if she was developing a crush on me before, but now I’m positive.
And her positivity is as infectious as her smile.
