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“So you’re off?”
“Yeah.”
“Hattie?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t like her being there alone. A big sigh comes from his chest like he’s been wanting to avoid thinking about it.
“Shop is closed for the weekend.”
“Which weekend is it?”
“This one,” he says, smiling at me like he knows he’s waited way too long to make this decision.
It’s a boyish grin, a new one. I document it, taking a mental snapshot and filing it in with the other things I’ve seen in the world that bring me all-consuming joy—daisies and puppies and iced caramel lattes and a cupcake with a perfect pink swirl on top.
“You have to go.”
“I don’t want to,” he retorts, like just the prospect of going home makes him a child. My mind flits over my own weekend that is shockingly free of bulk orders.
Do I want to?
I could offer . . .
I take a sip of my drink, liquid courage, and prepare for rejection.
“I could come with you,” I say, then my entire body goes hot in panic-filled prickles. Why the fuck would I say that? I’m about to open my mouth to justify or make a joke oranythingwhen he speaks.
“Would you do that?” When I look up at him, his eyes are on me, and fuck, there’s something new there.
Hope, maybe.
I don’t think about the loss of income.
I don’t think of the repercussions of closing on a weekend.
I don’t think about any of it, except for that look he’s giving me.
“Yeah, Ben. I’d do that.”
Thirty-Five
-Lola-
“You good?”I ask Ben, who is glaring out the windshield, driving in silence.
Well,he’ssilent.
I’m blaring Taylor Swift on his car radio.
Should I have changed up my playlist?
Probably.
Did watching his knuckles go white when I demanded radio privileges give me a sick joy?Absolutely.
I’m not asking if he’s okay because he’s been enduring Ms. Swift for nearly two hours.
I’m asking because we’re passing a green sign that saysWelcome to Springbrook Hills. Enjoy your stay!
Ben is taking me home for his mother’s birthday party.
