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He laughs, the sound real and unexpected, and something takes flight in my chest.
“You really don’t have to.”
“I’ll bring glow sticks. And glow necklaces. And a flask. By the way.” I glance out the window. “Where the hell are we?”
“Think I took a wrong turn,” Brooks replies, glancing at the GPS on the dashboard screen. “They should’ve put up more signs. Sorry this is taking so long.”
I don’t mind one bit.
“I’m serious, Brooks. I’d like to skate with you.”
Brooks turns his head toward me so I can see his smile. The slight crease between his brows. He likes the idea, but he’s also nervous.
“It’s this Friday,” he says. “As in tomorrow. Or today I guess, since it’s after midnight. I know you’re really busy—”
“I’ll make time. I can be done at the bakery by dinner.”
He sighs, turning back to the road. “Okay.”
“Thanks for letting me tag along. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Thanks for coming.” He clears his throat. “I mean that.”
Silence. It’s not uncomfortable, just the kind that’s full.
I put my hand on his arm to let him know I’m near if he wants to talk. I expect him to shrug me off, push me away. But he lets me keep my hand on his bicep, the same one he just showed off. It feels as solid and big as it looked.
He doesn’t talk. Neither do I. We just drive, the lights of the city catching on the stubble on his cheeks and jaw, the indent in his chin.
At last he clears his throat and nods at the dashboard. “Want to put music on or something? What are you listening to these days?”
The scrape of his voice makes my chest ache. It’s not entirely unpleasant, and I grin. “Murder.”
“Little Miss Sunshine listens to Murder?” He lifts that brow again. “Do tell.”
There’s that soaring sensation in my chest again. Unlike khaki-pants-guy in the elevator, Brooks is intrigued by my (frankly bizarre) taste in entertainment.
Makes me feel seen, not silly.
“I’m really into true crime podcasts right now.” I pick up my phone and pull up my latest podcast obsession. “The more murder-y, the better. Might make me a monster to say that, but they’re what’s getting me through some pretty long-ass days. I just pop in my earbuds at the bakery and two bodies in, I’ve crossed off half of my to-do list. It’s addictive. Here, let me get my phone hooked up to your car and I’ll play you my new favorite . . .”
A minute later, a narrator’s ominous introduction comes over the speakers. I take my hand off Brooks’s arm to adjust the volume, the story of The Mountain Murders beginning to take shape as Brooks takes a left onto Morehead Street.
By the time he puts the Range Rover in park outside my house, we’re at a juicy bit in the beginning of the first episode. When I reach for the door handle, his arm darts out, his hand grazing my shoulder.
“Wait,” he says. “I want to find out what happens.”
I wag my eyebrows. “Good, right? The whole Romeo and Juliet thing. The shotguns.”
“I feel like Kevin Costner is going to star in the TV series adaptation.”
“Yes! I mean, what’s for Kevin not to love?” I ask, trying very hard to ignore the way that single touch has my whole body buzzing far more than it did half-naked with Hayden. “There’s a cabin, a centuries-long feud, and a bear that’s grown mysteriously bigger and bigger the more and more people disappear.”
His lips twitch, and the buzz intensifies. “You’re fucking nuts, you know that?”
"All the best people are.” I glance at my house. The windows are dark, which means my roommate Keira is already asleep. It’s late for a school night. “I don’t want to keep you. I know you have an early wake-up call tomorrow.”
“So do you.” He frowns. “Any chance you could sleep in a little tomorrow? Get some rest?”
“Rest will be roller-skating with you.”
“I’m serious, Greer. I get the feeling you’re burning the candle at both ends—”
“I’ll be okay,” I reply with a smile. “You forget I’m younger than you are. A lot younger.”
Brooks groans, but he’s grinning, running a hand across his stubble. “You always know how to make a guy feel old as fuck.”
“Because you are.”
“Oh! Because I am old, and apparently only old people have Twitter accounts.” He grabs his phone and starts scrolling. “Drury Lane showed up on Wall Street Bathroom this week.”
I lean over the center console. “Wall Street Bathroom?”
His thumb hovers over a series of tweets. It’s handsome, his thumb (can a thumb be handsome?), the broad, shapely digit topped by a neatly trimmed nail. “It’s part gossip, part parody account of how ridiculous people in finance are. They report things that are supposedly overheard in the trading floor’s bathrooms.”
“That’s . . . interesting.”
