“Um…yeah,” I mumble, my cheeks burning.
Nolan smirks and crosses his arms over his chest, his head cocked to the side in amusement.
“Anyway,passenger princess, where I’m from, the driver picks the music.” He winks and turns back to the representative, saying something in rapid Italian. She nods curtly and turns her attention back to her computer—I’m guessing to get the rental set up.
“Oh, so it’s an Aussie thing, then, huh? That the driver picks the music?”
“No,” he says without looking at me. “It’s a Nolan Braddock thing.”
My stomach does a little flip at his cocky tone, but outwardly, I manage to snort a laugh.
“Fine, you can pick the playlist. But just know, I’m judgingyou—and it,” I warn, doing my best to give him a haughty smirk. His eyes are on me now, narrowed mischievously, and he thrusts his hand out toward me to shake.
I take it, his large palm warm and soft against mine.
“Deal.”
After Nolan signs a few waivers and forms, the representative leads us out to the parking lot, where we load our bags into a shiny red Fiat 500. It only takes us about twenty minutes to cross to the mainland using the ferry, and we finally manage to get on the road just before 9 PM, which means we’ll be pulling into the town of Amalfi a little after 3 AM.
With Nolan behind the wheel—his playlist starting off fairly strong with a ’90s Foo Fighters song—I finally have time to slip out my phone and check my tracking app. It tells me that Molly arrived in Amalfi an hour ago, and after checking my banking app, I can see a charge pending.
A ONE-THOUSAND-DOLLAR CHARGE.
I nearly drop my phone and scream when I see it, but instead, a strained sort of squeak escapes me, causing Nolan to shift his focus from the road to my stricken face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh…nothing,” I manage. Barely. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. There is no way I’m going to be reimbursed for this by the show unless I do something spectacular for ratings. And, given Molly’s apparent lack of money, I bet she’ll be unable to pay me back, either.
“Yeah, it definitely sounded like nothing.” Nolan’s sarcasm is earned, but I still shoot daggers at him before locking my phone and tucking it away in my pocket.
“Molly dropped a grand on my credit card. I think she hired a car to take her to Amalfi,” I finally say.
“Oh, shit,” he says, genuine concern pressing his brows together as he drags his gaze back to the road. “Can you even tap a watch to pay for a charge that big?”
“I have no idea, but either way, that’s a few days of work—at least—to pay that off.”
“What’s the drama between you and this Molly person anyway?”
“You want the long story, or the short story?” I ask, fiddling with my hoodie string—wrapping it slowly around one finger, then uncoiling it, over and over again.
“We have a six-hour drive ahead of us. I think I can handle the long story.” He turns to smile at me, then notices my fidgeting and reaches over to pull my hand away from the string. But he doesn’t let go—instead, he threads his fingers through mine and lays my palm on top of the gear shift, his palm blanketing it.
“Relax,” he says, “and tell me the story.”
So, I do.
I begin with how Molly and I met in Camera Club, and how she called me out on being an ice queen. And how, after that, we had bonded almost immediately overTwilight(cue side-eye and a small head shake from Nolan) andVeronica Mars(this one, at least, earned his approving nod).
I tried to paint him a picture of how Molly was the impulsive Thelma to my more reserved Louise. She made the rash, often emotional, decisions—and I pulled her back to reality before she made a mistake that might blow up in her face.
Usually, it had to do with a man.
Okay—it wasalwaysabout a man.
Not that she had bad taste. In almost all categories—with the glaring exception of their moral character—her taste in men was impeccable.
She just had a habit of choosing men who were more interested in how she looked on their arm than how shefeltin their relationship.
