And I loved every goddamned minute of it.
"You're quiet," Harper says now, pulling me from my thoughts.
I don't respond immediately. Instead, I let my gaze travel over her—the way her sweater has slipped slightly off one shoulder, the flush still visible on her cheeks from the warmth of her parents' house, the way she's tucked one leg underneath her on the seat.
"Observing," I say finally.
"That's your polite way of saying you're traumatized."
"I'm not traumatized."
"Amelia showed you the memes. You're definitely traumatized."
I shift slightly, closing some of the distance between us. Not touching her. Not yet. But enough that she notices, her breath catching slightly.
"Your sister is very... enthusiastic."
"That's one word for it." Her voice has gone quieter.
"Your father made approximately a thousand bad Dad jokes during dinner."
"One thousand and one. You missed the one about the potatoes."
"What was it?"
"'These are very a-peeling.' While gesturing at the mashed potatoes. Which aren't even the same type of potato as the ones with peels."
"That's some God-awful joking.”
"I know."
"I liked it."
Harper turns to look at me, and in the dim light of the car, I can see her surprise. "You liked my dad's dumb jokes?”
"They were so bad they were good. And he was so pleased with himself." I pause, my eyes dropping to her mouth. "You look like him when you smile like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to say something you know will make me laugh."
"I didn't realize I had that effect on you."
"You have several effects on me, Harper."
The air in the car heats, charges—electrifies.
Harper swallows. "Victor?—"
"Thank you for inviting me tonight."
"I didn't exactly invite you. Amelia stole my phone."
"But you wanted me there."
It's not a question. And I can see her answer in the way she's looking at me now, can read it in the slight parting of her lips.
"Yes," she admits quietly. "I wanted you there."
