Huh.
There’s only one seat in this car. The rest of it is literally just a hollowed-out piece of metal. And the driver’s seat is insanely tiny. Seriously, how does John even fit in there?
“I don’t think anyone’s ever done it in a race car,” he says, looking amused. “At least not without removing the roll cage.”
I peer at the thick black bars that crisscross through the whole car, halving the already limited space. “Any chance that can be done in, like, five minutes?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm.” I look around a little helplessly. “Maybe... on the hood?”
“You do know this whole place has security cameras,” John says.
“I... did not. Does anyone actually look at them?”
“Fred can. I don’t know if he actuallydoes, but...”
I grimace. Yeah, I seriously do not want Fred having access to a sex tape of me.
“Maybe this isn’t the best idea,” I admit.
“Maybe you should come by my place later,” John says. “After your hot date, I mean.”
I laugh and lean up to give him another kiss. “That sounds good.”
23
John’s apartment is on the top floor of a large brick building off Main Street. I find a parking spot not far from the barrel museum and walk along the sidewalk with my hands shoved in my pockets and my head tilted back to admire the pink-and-gold sky. The air smells delicious, like sea salt and freshly cut grass. My chest feels light and airy, like there’s more space in it or something. Only half of it is because of John. The other half is because of the text Kiara sent me earlier, saying she’d love to have coffee and asking if tomorrow morning would be too soon. Apparently she’s gotten addicted to this hazelnut cappuccino the local bakery makes and has been going there every morning for weeks. Maybe, if we hit it off, morning coffee will be our thing (even if I do plan on buying the ninety-nine-cent black coffee rather than a five- dollar cappuccino).
The building John lives in is a tiny bit run-down, but his apartment is actually really nice. The floors are hardwood and the ceilings have a cool, sort of old-fashioned molding pattern, and there’s one exposed-brick wall that gives the whole place an artsy vibe. There are a few big squashy couches in the living room and mismatched rugs strewn around haphazardly and a small balcony in the back overlooking the harbor.
I wander around while John opens a bottle of wine, peering into the bathroom (surprisingly neat), the closet (unsurprisinglymessy), and finally the bedroom, which has big windows, a king-size bed, and—
Hang on.
Is that afish tank?
“What?” John calls from the kitchen. He must have heard my excited gasp.
“You havefish!” I holler back.
A moment later, he appears in the doorway. “I have fish,” he agrees.
“They’re so cute!” I peer at them through the glass. One of them is tiny and golden, one is orange and pointy, and the third one is a gorgeous shimmery color and half-hidden between two rocks. “What are their names?”
“They don’t have names.”
I gape at him. “You haven’tnamedthem?”
“No. That one’s aRasbora—”
“A raspberry?”
“And that’s a swordtail—”
“That tail looks nothing like a sword.”
“And the one back there’s aGeophagus.”
