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“Do you ever talk to him?” He rests his head back against the seat, his eyes never leaving mine.
“All the time,” I admit.
“Me too.” He smiles to himself.
“What do you talk about?” I mirror his actions, resting my head against the seat, turning toward him.
“Now that I can’t tell you.”
“Why? Because you’re talking about me?” I tease.
“Maybe,” he admits, not an ounce of humor on his face.
The flutter hits me hard and it’s a wonder that I don’t melt into a puddle on the floor right here and now.
“What do you talk about?” He quirks a brow. “Me?”
“Maybe.” I play coy, offering him only a smile before turning my gaze back out the window.
