They didn’t.
“Alex?” Even as she pointed to the now-open road, the SUV behind them honked. “Alex, we need to move.”
The next honk was way longer and part of a growing chorus of discontent, and he jumped a little before facing forward again and stomping on his own accelerator.
He cleared his throat and paid careful attention to the road. “Sorry. Lost focus for a minute there.”
He jabbed at the control screen to lower the temperature and raise the fan speed for his side of the car, high color burnishing his cheekbones.
Another tap. Another. “It’s fucking hot in here. Shit.”
Maybe the sun was more intense on the driver’s side, because she was pretty comfortable.
She frowned. “Do you need more water?”
“Nope.” His tone did not invite further discussion. “Anyway, my mom has the same model as mine, just in a different color. I kind of liked the idea of us driving matching cars.”
He’d clearly bought her that car, and the sweetness of the gesture pierced Lauren’s heart.
He rarely mentioned his mom, although Lauren knew the two of them talked regularly on the phone. She’d wondered about their relationship, but now she knew: Alex loved his mother. He wasn’t a man to love half-heartedly, and their matching cars were further proof.
“Does she live in California?” Lauren asked.
They were nearing Santa Monica. Soon, they’d merge onto the Pacific Coast Highway and drive right along the water for miles and miles, heading up the coast on that famous ribbon of road sandwiched between the vast, sparkling ocean and steep, rugged mountains. Decades had passed since her last extended trip along the PCH, and she couldn’t wait.
Maybe his mom lived somewhere along their route?
He shook his head, his mouth tight. “Florida. Near where I grew up.”
What kind of woman had raised the man beside her? And why hadn’t Alex—who chatted at frankly ludicrous length about everyone else in his life—discussed her more?
Lauren twisted to face him more directly, readjusting her seat belt so it didn’t bite into her neck. “Are you two—”
“I have a favor to ask,” he interrupted, the words abrupt. “How do you feel about filming me?”
The images that appeared in her febrile brain should have embarrassed her. But she was too busy wondering why he’d cut off that line of conversation so decisively, and also too busy melting into a puddle of lust all over his lovely leather seats, to feel the appropriate level of shame.
“What, uh …” Another long, not-cold-enough sip of water. “What exactly do you want me to film?”
Probably not what she’d just imagined, sadly.
“You’re not online much, right?” When she shook her head, he steered them down the California Incline, and then they were on the PCH at last. “Carah—do you remember her? From the charity event?”
Here, next to the Pacific, the temperature wasn’t scorching, but pleasantly warm. The blue, blue water stretching into infinity loosened something long-knotted inside her, and the ocean breezes beckoned. Without even bothering to ask first, she turned off the AC and rolled down her window. He shot her a pleased grin, then lowered his too.
The whipping wind roared in her ears, and she raised her voice to be heard. “Carah Brown. Very kind, very funny, uses the wordfuckmore than any other human alive?”
He snorted. “You remember Carah. Anyway, she films herself eating weird foods suggested by viewers and posts the clips all over the internet. When we were texting yesterday, she suggested making my own videos on the trip as a way to connect with my fans outside ofGates,and I thought it was a decent idea. But I need a camerawoman.”
“Me,” she said.
“You,” he confirmed. “Assuming you’re willing.”
In theory, she was, but … “I know nothing about filming people.”
“Luckily, I know a lot about being filmed.” He set his left elbow on the windowsill, and the arm of his T-shirt rippled in the rush of air. “It’ll be fine, Wren. It’s just an experiment. If it doesn’t turn out well, I don’t post anything. No problem.”
Well, she’d warned him. “Okay. I’ll do it. You want me to use your phone?”
