I cut her a sideways glance, a grin tugging at my mouth as she twists the macaron in half and pops one piece into her mouth.
She catches me looking and smiles sheepishly around the bite. “Fann yooo, Poo-ie.”
I snort. “Real romantic. Nothing gets me going like half-chewed macaron declarations.”
She swallows dramatically, batting her lashes. “Thank you, Pookie.”
“That’s better.” I drum the steering wheel once. “Almost had to revoke your treat privileges.”
Her glare lasts all of two seconds before she reaches for the stereo with a mutinous huff. “You know what? I’m worth every headache I give. So buckle up or be bored for the rest of your life.”
“Trust me, Lulu. You’re the last person who could bore me.”
Her hand stills on the dial for a beat before she side-eyes me. “Are you trying to flirt with me, or are you just delirious from jet lag?”
I scoff. “Flirting, Parnell. Get used to it.”
She fiddles with the radio, flipping until she lands on something upbeat. Pop and synthy, a voice that sounds vaguely familiar.
I arch a brow. “Seriously?”
“What, you’d rather we brood in silence like Batman? No way. You’re getting Harry Styles.”
“Never heard of him.” It’s a lie, but riling Tallulah Parnell up is becoming one of my favorite pastimes, and it sure beats seeing her stressed out or down on herself.
“You live under a rock.”
“Correction,” I say, eyes on the road. “I live under a puck.”
“That is tragic. I can’t believe I’m even letting you drive me anywhere. At this rate, you probably don’t know who Taylor Swift is, either.”
“I do.”
“Name five songs.”
I side-eye her. “Uhh… Powerless?”
She groans, then props her chin in her hand, staring out the window. For a beat, the only sound is her quiet hum along with the music.
“You really don’t have to do this,” she says finally, softer.
“Do what?”
“This.” She waves a hand at the road, at me. “Drag me out like I’m your personal project. I’ll survive.”
“You’re sulking.”
She bristles. “Am not.”
All I have to do is look at her for a beat, and she exhales.
“Okay, maybe a little. But it’s not like I don’t have a reason. Do you know what it’s like standing next to Charlie and Tamara and Zoe? They look like actual WAGs, magazine-spread gorgeous, and then there’s me, a middle school teacher with a favorite Sharpie. I look like the kid sister, tagging along.”
I grip the wheel tighter, jaw flexing.
“You finished?” I ask.
She throws me a wounded glare. “Don’t be mean.”
