He glances back, his cheeks tinged with pink. “So?”
“You’re a Swiftie!”
He clears his throat. “She’s a talented songwriter.”
“That she is.” I try to keep my cackling to a bare minimum as I sprinkle in some Taylor Swift. When I’m satisfied with the vibe of the list, I cue it up through the sound system and hand his phone back, settling back into the seat to enjoy the music, the scenery outside the window, and—if I’m honest with myself—the scenery beside me.
I wonder again if this is supposed to be a date.
I know we are friends, but could we be more?
Maybe?
I can’t tell if he wants that too.
After all, he walked up all those stairs to pick me up at my door and carry my bags down for me. Heopened the car door for me. He told me the passcode for his phone and didn’t seem the least bit worried I might steal his credit card information. He let me make a playlist on his music app, even though he seems so opposed to them in general.
All of that feels important.
On the other hand, he’s older than I am. Serious about things in a way I’m just not. It’s probably something about being from a family of rampant neurodivergence, but I spent my childhood feeling like a thirty-five-year-old trapped in a child’s body. Now that I’m in my mid-twenties, I feel the opposite.
Maybe all these things he’s done today are things real men his age just do. Maybe he’s being polite, and it means nothing more than that.
Unfortunately, if he is just being polite, I’m completely smitten. His good manners might just ruin me for other men.
seven
“SISTER GOLDEN HAIR” — AMERICA
Miller
After about an hour, we stop to charge and grab snacks in a picturesque little town in the Hill Country. There’s a moment in the parking lot, with the sun shining down on her and the wind in her hair, that she simply takes my breath away.
Her hair, which varies from month to month, is a warm golden blond with vibrant streaks of blue at the tips. She’s in a sundress that shows off her arms and hits just above the knees. At work, she’s normally bundled up against “the brutality of the air conditioner” (her description, not mine), so seeing her bare arms feels like a gift. Seeing her bare knees, catching a glimpse of her thighs … Jesus, I’m so hard it’s a miracle I can walk.
She has a tattoo on her left leg. Unless I’mmistaken, it’s of a dragon. So far, I’ve only caught glimpses of it: a scaly tail in shades of gold that curls around her knee and makes my fingers twitch to push up her skirt and reveal the rest of the tattoo. It’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself, but I do it.
Ever since teasing me about my taste in music and making a playlist for the trip, Tavey’s been oddly introspective.
Not that I mind quiet Tavey. I see this version of her often at work—when she gets so deep in thought, hours can pass seemingly unnoticed. Honestly, I do the same thing sometimes, and it’s why we work so well together.
Despite that, I want more from her this weekend.
I know we’re compatible at work. My gut says we’re going to be compatible in bed. But I can be patient for that. For now, I just want more from her. More than she’s willing to open up at work.
So the second we’re back on the road, I ask, “So what’s with the dragons?”
She twists in her seat, swallowing the drink she just took before launching into an explanation. “Okay, the family that ruled Westeros before the show even started were?—”
“No. Not onGame of Thrones. In general.”
“What do you mean, in general?” She’s eyeing me suspiciously.
“You clearly have a thing for dragons. I was just wondering why.”
“Oh.” She sits back in her seat, staring straight ahead for a minute. “Well, they’re dragons. Doesn’t everybody love them?”
“Sure, lots of people like dragons.” I reach out my hand and gently tap her thigh just above her knee where her skirt has ridden up, revealing the hind legs of the dragon. “But not everyone loves them enough to get them tattooed.”
