What has he been doing with his hands that would give him callouses?
Imagining the possible answers made her cheeks tingle. Or maybe it was the finger that was brushing her scalp and the other one brushing her cheek. It shouldn’t have been brushing her cheek. She hadn’t hit her cheek. Not to mention that cheek was on the other side, which hadn’t hit the window at all.
“It looks okay. Nothing there.”
Once he let go, her curls tumbled forward. He caught one and held it between his fingers, peering at it. “Your hair used to be red.”
“I dyed it that color. This is my real color.”
“A true blonde then,” he said, as his eyes began to drift down but quickly shot back up.
“What, you don’t believe me? You want proof?”
His cheeks crimsoned. “Of course not.”
She pushed his hand away, expecting the movement to send him back to his seat. But instead he leaned in. His hot breath laced withcinnamon and some kind of earthy spice bathed her cheek, sending a warm glow to the southern hemisphere. His face was a mere inch from hers. If she turned her head, their lips would meet.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He pulled her seatbelt from its retractor, draped it across her body, and locked it into place.
Once upright and with his own seatbelt buckled, he released the parking brake and stepped on the gas. “Please keep that locked for the remainder of the ride.”
The man could be so robotic. He sounded like a recorded message being played over a loudspeaker. Except he wasn’t loud. She’d never heard him be loud. She wondered if it was possible for him to ever be loud. And what circumstances would prompt him to be loud.
“I was looking for cassette tapes. I figured if there was a cassette player, there must be tapes.”
“Maybe here,” he said, tapping a compartment between them.
She opened it. “Score!” She pulled out a case.
Oh, he’s going to love this, she thought, perusing the selection. Old country—Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline. No Bach or Mozart. No jazz either.
She pulled out Hank Williams and popped it into the player. She gazed out at the icy road, listening to the soulful twang as he sang about melting that cold, cold heart.
She stifled a giggle and shot him a sidelong glance.
“So what have you been doing during the break?” she asked.
“Do you mean since you last saw me lying unconscious on the men’s room floor at the Royal Horseguards Hotel, or slammed up against the embankment at Silverstone?”
Why did he have to bring that up? And you forgot to include that party, Man in the Iron Mask.
“Yeah,” she said, her tone bitter. “Since then.”
“Nothing much.”
She peered at him, but she had only his profile to look at.
“Been to any good parties lately?”
No response.
“I asked you—”
“I heard you the first time.”
“You don’t want to tell me?” she ventured.
