She slides into the seat. “Sure. Sure. But really it should beMiss.”
My composure holds strong as I close her door. But when I make it to the back of the car, I smack my hand against my forehead. “You’re an idiot!”
After I get in the driver’s side, this POS starts on the third attempt. June clears her throat.
I squint at her, daring her to say anything about my cheap-ass car, the pungent smell of pot (not mine), and other nasty smells (also not mine) mixed with pine air freshener. The air freshenerismine, hanging from the rearview mirror.
“Seat belt,” she says.
“Oh … yeah.” I rein in my scowl and tug at the seat belt. It’s tangled on the floor beside my seat because it no longer retracts into its casing. This car is older than I am. A freebie I snagged at the junkyard before someone compacted it into a pile of scrap metal. I had it running in less than two days.
“Stupid thing,” I mumble, trying to work the knot out of the seat belt. When I finally get it fastened, I look at June.
She has the goofiest expression on her face from attempting to hide her amusement.
“At least I have a car,” I say like I would to a buddy giving me shit, not the girl I’m trying (unsuccessfully) to impress while simultaneously playing hard to get. I’m not sure what my game plan is. It’s like a skunk playing hard to get with a white, floppy-eared bunny rabbit.
She curls her lips between her teeth and slowly nods while humming a soft, “Mm-hmm.”
“What do you like to eat?” I ask, pulling away from the curb with some extra gas before it dies on me.
“Food.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Good food.”
“So like chicken fingers and fries?”
“Careful, Flynn. I don’t know if you’re allowed to sweep me off my feet twice in one day.”
I shoot her a quick sidelong glance.
“You look more like a salad girl. I don’t know where to get good salads. I don’t eat a lot of ‘em.”
“Why do I look like a salad girl?”
“Cuz you’re skinny.”
“So are you,” she says.
“So chicken fingers and fries?”
June laughs. “Yeah. Chicken fingers and fries.”
Chapter Nine
June
I don’t likechicken fingers. The smell of Flynn’s car makes me gag with bile. When I step out of it at the restaurant, I hide my cringe because something sticky on the car seat makes a gooey sound as I peel my butt from it.
His brow furrows when I wrinkle my nose. “Shit. Was there something on the seat?”
I try not to laugh. The seat is black, but I’m pretty sure the original fabric color was beige. Yeah, there’s a lot ofsomethingscaked on the seat.
“It’s fine,” I say. Wiping my backside.
He twists his torso, inspecting my butt.
