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Erica settles her bonnie erse onto the plush seat, wriggling like she's very comfortable.
The car rocks when I climb in and yank my door shut. The engine rumbles to life, but so softly that it's almost drowned out by the classical music emanating from the stereo. Vivaldi'sThe Four Seasons. I'd left the radio on a classical station, but maybe I should tune it to something livelier.
Erica looks a touch melancholy again.
I lay my hand over hers on the center console. "I won't ask what's been eating at you these weeks, but I want you to know you can tell me if you like. Maybe I can help."
She twines our fingers and gives me a half-hearted smile. "Let's get on the road and have fun. That's all I want to think about right now."
I nod, though I'm not convinced by her attempt to brush off her anxiety. Despite my command that we don't talk about anything personal, I get an ache in the pit of my stomach when I think about the look on Erica's face every time she mentions Presley the scunner. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her mindless, then vow to do whatever it takes to solve her problems, whatever they might be.
But I can't do that.
Vivaldi concedes to Mozart by the time we've merged onto the freeway, headed for a destination I chose. I hope she'll like it, but if she doesn't, I will find something else to make her smile.
A police car passes us on the left.
Peripherally, I see Erica tensing up and biting her lip while she glances sideways at the police car. Once it's passed by, she relaxes again.
Why did that fash her?
She crosses her legs and massages my thigh. "Where are we going, Sex God?"
I wince and shift position while she slides her hand higher, dangerously close to my cock. "Our destination is a surprise."
"Oh?" She edges her fingers closer to my burgeoning erection.
I grasp her hand, settling it on the center console beneath mine. "You'll like it, I promise."
"Will it be sexy?"
I flash her a secretive smile. "Patience,mo leannan. Patience."
*****
On our drive south from Chicago, I show Erica every silly tourist destination along the way to make sure she smiles and laughs instead of slipping into sadness again. We stop at the Paul Bunyan statue in University Park, where the giant lumberman slumps as if he's too knackered to hold himself up and lets his ax drag on the ground. The second I notice Erica's good mood waning the slightest bit, I take action.
I rush at Paul Bunyan's giant ax, pretending to strain to lift it and contorting my face strictly to make my performance more believable. I don't care if the other tourists think I'm a dafty. I will suffer any indignity to make Erica smile. So I fall on the huge blade and act out a death scene that involves enough overblown silliness to make even a confirmed cynic smile.
And Erica laughs so hard she clutches her belly while happy tears gather in her eyes.
Mission accomplished, I give up my bloody awful one-man show and march back to Erica's side. I lay a hand on her cheek, running my thumb over the upturned corner of her mouth. "That's better. I'll humiliate myself anytime to see that beautiful smile."
She gazes up at me with an expression that almost seems like…adoration.
Christ, the last thing I want is for her to develop feelings for me. I'm leaving in less than a week, and anyway, I can't give her the sort of relationship a woman like her needs. I probably misinterpreted her expression. She doesn't adore me.
After paying our respects to Paul Bunyan, we get back on the road and visit several other tourist destinations, all featuring bizarre statues or some other barmy monument, like a water tower emblazoned with a smiley face, and a Nazi buzz bomb. When we reach the statue of Abraham Lincoln holding a "Go Bears" sign, I don't understand the reference.
"Was Lincoln afraid of bears?" I ask, and I'm not being cheeky.
"No," Erica says with a half-suppressed laugh. "The Bears are a professional football team."
"I assume you mean that daft game Americans play with an oval ball. But that's not football."
"Yes, it is. Not that I'm into sports, but football is super popular in this country."
"But you lot don't know what the word means." I sling an arm around her waist to pull her close, then I speak in a low, husky voice. "Everywhere else in the world, football means the game where blokes kick a ball around with their feet, not the bloody stupid game Americans play."
