Page 41 of Slick Trip

“What’s the next motel?” I asked quickly.

Cooper blinked as if it took effort to think. Then he grabbed his phone. “Verity Inn. Five minutes away. It’s right next to Walmart.”

I nodded. “Good. We’ll get your raisins, check in . . . and then figure this out.”

“Okay,” Cooper said softly. “I trust you.”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Cooper trusted me. After everything, somehow, he trusted me. Did that mean he’d forgiven me? Or was he just too exhausted to remember why he shouldn’t? It didn’t even matter. At some point, my body had simply decided he was mine to take care of. He was my every variable, my every function.

My whole damn code.

13

Shopping

JON

Cooper had gripped my forearm before ducking into the restroom, asking me to stay close. I’d told him I wasn’t going anywhere, and I meant it. My shoes were practically glued to the linoleum. I wasn’t moving an inch.

I waited right where he’d left me, keeping watch near the restrooms while he was inside splashing his face with ice-cold water to fight off the fatigue. To keep my mind from spiraling, I stared at the family-sized packs of cookies by the shop entrance. The cookies weren’t even Christmassy, but something about their shape threw me back two years to the time I decorated gingerbread with the Taylor brothers.

* * *

“You’re not decorating,” Cooper pointed out. He was standing so close that I felt his breath on my skin.

“I’m observing this slightly burnt cookie,” I told him.

Jack snorted. “Dude, you scared of sprinkles or something?”

“I’m not scared.”

I hadn’t decorated anything before, so I felt a little out of my depth. I’d learned early on that playing with food and making a mess were luxuries reserved for kids who were actually wanted.

“Prove it,” Cooper said, buzzing with enthusiasm. Or maybe it was the sugar. He’d eaten more cookies than he’d decorated.

I sighed and reached for the frosting.

Jack grabbed a handful of sprinkles and dumped them directly onto one of his own cookies.

“This is how art is made,” he said.

“Sorry, Jack, but that’s not art. That’s an accident,” Cooper commented, making me laugh.

“It’s abstract art.”

“If abstract means abysmal, then yes.”

I ignored their bickering and carefully spread a thin layer of frosting across the cookie.

“This isn’t surgery,” Cooper murmured, watching my every move.

“Maybe not, but I think this cookie could be improved with structure.”

“And you could be improved with fun.”

Before I could respond, he reached past me and grabbed the sprinkle jar. His arm grazed mine and stayed there.

I tried to focus on the cookie.