Page 35 of Hooked on Trouble

He stops at the exit and plants his hand on his hip. “I’m not going outside in this. I look ridiculous.”

Ridiculous is an understatement. “But you don’t look like a cop.”

“I look like a freak.” He grimaces at his baggy jeans, the waist cinched with an awful fabric belt, the pink ends hanging down his hip. His loose Hawaiian shirt hides the build he often emphasizes, but it’s the wig and hat that puts his outfit over the top. Brown “hair” hangs to his jaw, a red beret pulled over his forehead.

“If you saw the losers my sister hung out with in high school, you’d understand. Plus, if I’m wearing this, there’s no way you’re changing.” I flutter my light blue dress, the stitched yellow flowers undulating with the movement. Add the white ballet flats and wide-rimmed sun hat, and I practically look virginal.

Gently, he stills my hand with his. “You look nice.”

The reverence in his tone sends warmth curling through me. His fingers linger on my skin, little brushes that speak volumes: He’s sorry, I think each one says. Forgive me. Let me make it right. Like he’s worried his concerns and questions have set us back. Or maybe he’s thinking about the motel in our future. Whatever the reason for his increased PDA, I need these moments of connection today.

I kiss his shoulder. “Thanks, but I look like I should skip through this place humming ‘The Sound of Music.’”

“You really think this is necessary?” He scratches at his wig.

I play with one of the buttons running down the front of my dress, and his eyes follow my movement. “I think it’s our best chance of getting people to talk to us, and it makes me feel a bit protected. Like if she’s there, I can hide under this stupid hat and decide if I want to approach her.”

He tugs up his jeans, resignation on his face. “Fine. I’ll do it. Because it makes you feel better, but the hat and wig can wait ’til later.” He yanks them off and adds, “You better not take pictures.”

“If I do, might you arrest me? With handcuffs?”

That earns me a smile—dark and mischievous with a dash of me-ow. “Tempting. And the answer to your text from after the beach is silk.”

My cheeks heat, like the revirginized girl I am. I can definitely do silk.

A chaste kiss later, we’re on our way. Once outside the city limits, I try to ignore my mounting unease. The high-pitched twang vibrating from the radio doesn’t help. Cars blur by; trees and light posts break up the landscape. I yawn. I shake my head. No matter what I do, my eardrums feel as though someone’s drilling into them with ice picks. “I can’t take it anymore.”

I reach to fiddle with the radio, but Nico puts his hand on mine. “We had a deal.”

“That was before I was faced with losing my hearing at twenty-six. And I’d prefer to avoid awakening every dead dog within a thirty-mile radius.”

Smirking, he returns his hand to the wheel. “I like this music.”

“I like curry, but knowing you hate it, I wouldn’t lock you in here for two hours just to watch your face turn blue.”

His smirk widens. “Okay. I’ll give you two songs. Then we’ll alternate.”

I flip the dial, passing static, something French, a classical guitar, and coffeehouse yodeling that goes with our outfits. When a scream blares from the speakers, followed by a heavy bass, I stop fiddling. Nico winces but doesn’t say anything. He endures two metal tunes and then changes the station back.

This is how the drive goes: his songs, my songs, his stupid shirt showing off his forearms as he drives. My dress shifting across my sensitive skin. His gaze raking over my body.

And we talk.

He tells me about the school trip with Kolton and Sawyer that ended with Nico locked out of their room, only to wake up on the hotel floor, a mustache drawn on his face. I regale him with my tales of delinquency, complete with the time I shoved a banana up my principal’s tailpipe. He listens without interrupting. Nico always listens.

Once we leave the highway, farmland blankets the valley floor, mountains bordering the lush land. I relax more, the scenery as calming as Nico’s rich voice.

Until he pulls up to a sign that says, Neverland Farms. “You nervous?” he asks.

“Do they speak Portuguese in Portland?”

He chuckles. “Right. Stupid question.” He takes my hand, uncurls my fist, and laces our fingers together. The kiss he places on my pulse point hurts my racing heart. “I’m here because I care about you. That won’t change. No matter what happens with Rose, I’ll see you through this.”

That boyish grin of his appears, sneaking into places I usually keep locked. I’m not sure how he got the key. “Bet you weren’t counting on this much baggage, dating me.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and his eyes have never been so blue, burning bright with so much emotion I’m forced to glance away. “Raven,” he says, drawing my attention back to him. He cups my jaw and brushes his thumb over my cheek. A cut or callus scratches my skin. “I’m all in. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

His gaze is unwavering, his jaw as strong as the mountains around us. His shoulders are big enough to carry this burden of mine, and his family’s, and the kids he helps at the rec center.