Instead, I say, “We need a truce.”
“Can you be civil?” Xander says, without thinking. I shoot him a look. He holds his hands up, like they’re two giant man hand-sized white flags. A truce. “We can be civil.”
Then, he leans toward me. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me and I hate that anticipation zips through my body, practically begging for Xander to be anything but civil toward me.
Thankfully, he reaches for the passenger door but it’s too late, I’m already flustered. And if you think the hint of his slept-in-so-fresh-and-so-clean-scent that’s been marinating in his skin for the last twelve hours would lose its effect, well, you’d be wrong. It acts like a narcotic, a shot straight to my nervous system. I am intoxicated. In broad fucking daylight.
He opens the passenger door to his slick black BMW-something-series, then turns to face me. Waiting. I hesitate.
“I can Uber home,” I say, offering him an out. Instead of taking it, he rolls his eyes. “It’s fine,” I insist. Not that I want to get hung up on what constitutes as civil, but where does the humble eye roll fall?
“Get in the car, Hutchinson,” he says, tilting his head toward the open door. The act makes his curls flop, and if Xander and the curls want me to get in the car, then I will get in the car. “Our truce starts now.”
I get in.
Xander shuts the door and I’m free to sigh in peace, without scrutiny under our new civil act. I rest my head on the leather headrest and close my eyes, trying to process what the fuck just happened.
One moment, we’re getting freaky. The next, we’re snuggling. Then we’re being ordered to date. And now I’m his passenger princess. The destination? Somewhere civil, I guess.
I hear a click and turn around to see Xander putting his bag, and mine, in the trunk, and I try to ignore that this basic act of courtesy feels warm and fuzzy.
Once Xander gets in the car, I make a concerted effort to thank him. He puts on a pair of Wayfarers that make him look like a heartbreaker before looking over at me and throwing me an equally concerted, “You’re welcome.”
“Ten points for basic manners,Captain America,” I say, the memory of his thick thighs wearing the hell out of those boxer shorts a few nights ago.
“Ten points for recognizing them,” he volleys right back.
“Thank you,” I say, acting like it was a compliment of the highest order and not some half-baked diplomacy wrapped around something pointed. Well, joke’s on Xander because I barely recognized it.
Of course, I don’t say any of this out loud. We’re mere minutes into this truce, and I will not take the bait. But I do watch as Xander’s lips curl at the ends. Like he’s getting off on working me up. So I decide the safest place to look for the sake of our truce is out my window. The sun is full throttle in the sky.
“Another day, another heatwave,” I say, evoking the social code of surface-level conversation. The weather.
“There’s supposed to be a cool change tonight,” Xander says, equally mundane. “Thunderstorms and all.”
“In Los Angeles?” I question as my retinas slowly begin to melt without my sunglasses. “Doubtful.”
“That’s what the weather app says.”
“Like they ever get it right,” I say, before remembering that there’s a treaty that’s relying on me filtering myself.
I look at Xander, who’s concentrating on navigating a lane change. The blinker like a countdown, reminding me that this conversation, like every other one, it seems, is a ticking time bomb. Once we’re safely in Xander’s lane of choice, he looks at me for a moment before returning his eyes to the road.
“That’s an interesting perspective, and I can see how it could be interpreted that way,” Xander says, his tone measured. Every consonant precise. I feel like I’m getting the full lawyer treatment right now. And I look at the clock on the dash. Yep, thatwas a whole minute into our truce before Xander managed to get under my skin.
“If by ‘interesting’ you mean because we practically live in a desert,” I say, unable to stop myself from testing how far Xander will go with this lawyer word salad.
“That’s an important point,” Xander says, noncommittal. And the filtered version of Xander somehow pushes my buttons more than the fighting. Or the fucking around. “It definitely adds depth to the conversation.”
And just when I think he’s done, he says, “Let’s revisit this conversation this evening and see how it all ties in.”
Well, it’s official. Xander’s gone full lawyer bot on me.
I sigh. That’s fine. That’s just fine.
In fact, it’s more than fine. This is exactly what we need to get through the rest of this car ride, and sleep study, without any more drama.
I close my eyes and lean my head on the headrest. Disengaged.
