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He walks over to my side and opens the door. Then he presses a kiss against my shoulder and whispers, “Get in the goddamn car now so we won’t get arrested.”
I don’t argue with him at all.
9
ME
The windshield wipers fight the rain as Easton speeds down the street.
His hand is resting on my left thigh, and I’m trying to think of something—anything, to talk about, but words are eluding me.
The weather serves as our soundtrack for most of the ride, and when we arrive at Gayle’s, the drive-through line snakes around the block.
This place just opened this year, and it’s been the talk of the town ever since. If you’re lucky, the wait is supposedly only half an hour, and it seems we don’t fall into that category tonight.
“You want me to go inside instead of waiting in this line?” he asks.
“We’ll get soaked.”
“That’s why I just volunteered to go in by myself.” He looks over at me, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. “You can sit in here.”
“I don’t think so.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “I’m going, too.”
He lets out a low laugh and parks in the front row.
Reaching into the backseat, he grabs his varsity hoodie and hands it to me.
I pull it on and he rushes over to my side of the car. He pulls me against his side and the rain attacks us as we reach toward the entrance.
Inside, the decor is like a diner from the fifties.
He leads me to a booth in the back. Within seconds, a waitress rolls over on skates with menus and a tray.
“Since we’re slammed at the drive-thru, here are a few samples you can try,” she says. “I’ll be back with you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” we say in unison.
Easton wraps an arm around my shoulder and my heart races at the contact.
“We’re in public,” I say.
“I’m aware.” He uses his free arm to scoop vanilla onto a spoon. “Want to try this one?”
I blush as he places it against my lips.
We try the flavors one by one, and I have to hold back from saying, “Oh my fucking god” after every bite.
“What the hell are they putting in this?” Easton asks.
“I’m pretty sure it’s crack.”
I laugh and claim the peach flavor for myself. As I’m mid-bite, a large group of people rush in, cursing and yelling at the rain.
Taking off their hoodies, I realize they’re Easton’s teammates.
I move from under his arm and scoot away, but he grabs my thigh and pulls me back.
“Easton!” His second-closest friend Shaw walks over and slaps his shoulder. “I see you raced like a bat out of hell from the beach.”
