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He gives me a smug smile and tilts his head. “We’ll see.”
I groan, he’s so fucking infuriating.
* * *
The roads aresnow-packed by the time we cross the state line between Vermont and Massachusetts. Most of the cars are slowing down. Not us. Landon Miller doesn’t believe in slowing down during a storm. We shouldn’t linger around drivers who doubt themselves, those are the ones who cause accidents.
For me, it’s unnerving to sit next to him while he’s driving because I have to be quiet. The silence is slowly killing me. He has one rule. We don’t talk when he’s driving during a storm. It distracts him. Seeing that we have another three or four hours to go, I close my eyes, hoping to sleep for the rest of the trip. It’s almost impossible. When we arrive in Hartford, Landon wakes me up, yelling, “Fucking asshole, get out of the road.”
“Lovely,” I grunt. “Good morning to you too.”
“Sorry, I’ve been trying to control myself, but these fuckers are just getting on my nerves.”
Needless to say, the next hundred miles are stop and go. We crawl along with the traffic. The no talking rule switches to swear words all the way to Manhattan. It’s twenty minutes after one when we finally arrive at The Ambassador Hotel. It’s new, it’s trendy, and I’m not sure how I feel about it all, but I’m still excited to be here. I have less than two hours to eat lunch and find a Blow Dry Bar for my hair.
If I’m lucky, I can squeeze the visit to the nail salon after my appointment with the fertility clinic. If not … I look at my chipped, uneven nails. My nails will have to do with a nice clipping and a coat of the clear nail polish I have in my bag.
“Where are you staying?” I ask Landon.
“Hopefully, they have a room next to yours,” he says, handing the bags to the bellboy. “I requested that when I made my reservations.”
“You planned this?”
“I’d call it improvising,” he corrects me and takes the ticket from the valet attendant. “Careful now, I know every inch of my truck, Frey.”
The kid’s eyes widen when Landon says his name. It’s funny to see the reaction of people when he talks to them as if they’re old friends. Most people forget they’re wearing a name tag.
“Make sure it doesn’t have a scratch, and I’ll tip you well by the end of the week,” he warns him in the friendliest tone he can use.
Landon is very particular about his cars. God forbid someone sees his Porsche Carrera. That thing is as old as my father, but according to Landon, it’s a treasure.
I look at the kid who gives Landon a dismissive gaze.
“Seriously, don’t scratch my car?”
Landon shrugs. “They need to learn to be careful with other people’s stuff. Plus, maybe I can hire him to work at Jared’s.”
I give him an infuriating side gLandon and continue walking toward the entrance. He follows right beside me.
“Thank you for driving me even though it wasn’t necessary. I’m sure Dad appreciates the gesture.” I dismiss him as we enter the luxurious hotel.
There’s a big Christmas tree right beside us, which reminds me that next weekend we’re putting up the trees. It’s going to be the last time I spend it with the Millers. Dad will have to drive from Vermont to spend the holidays with me. I’m not sure if Bishop would follow. Damian won’t entertain the idea.
It’s the high season, why would he waste his time celebrating something that’s based on commercialized merchandise? We’re lucky that he lives close by and takes a few hours to be with us. He’s a combination between Mr. Scrooge and the Grinch. Sometimes he can be so fucking obtuse, cold, and heartless.
“Are you going to tell me why I’ve been on your shit list since Saturday?”
“There’s no such list, and if I had one, you’d know why you’re on it,” I say, and then warn him, “I hope you have plans for the week. I’m going to be too busy to spend time with you.”
Seriously, how can I find dates if I have this guy following me around? I double check my phone to verify that my profile is visible on Tinder. Bishop helped me open an account last night.
When I check in, the clerk asks me for my credit card. Only two out of the five nights I’m staying are paid by the hotel I’m interviewing with. Landon hands over his.
“Just put everything on my card.”
I’m thankful that this isn’t Kentbury or everyone in town would know that Landon Miller’s paying for my room. I groan. They already know that Landon and I are in New York, don’t they?
“What’s wrong?” Landon asks as we walk toward the elevator bank.
