Go ask my sister, Old Man. She can help you with the lingo. I recommend a sedative first And maybe a medic standing by with a defibrillator.
"And there it is—" The words slip out before I can stop them. "Another guy who thinks slamming straight into fifth means he knows his way around a stick."
The darkness in the truck can't hide the way his jaw ticks. It's the same tell he's had since we were kids, the one that says I'm getting under his skin.
"Bold of you to assume I don't know my way around every gear in this truck, Squirt."
His voice hits me low in my belly, a direct strike that absolutely does not make me picture exactly how well he might know his way around things. I squeeze my thighs together and focus on the phone, because that's safer than acknowledging whatever just sparked between us.
I snort, falling back on the attitude that's gotten me through a lifetime of being underestimated. "Please. We are so not them."
"Exactly." His agreement comes too fast, too hard, like he's trying to outrun whatever's brewing between us. "We're…"
"Adults," I supply helpfully, definitely not watching the way his fingers drum against the leather of the steering wheel or how his forearms flex with each subtle movement. Nope. Not at all.
"Mature," he adds with a nod that holds about as much truth as my manifestation underwear's promise to make me 'fearless.'
Throwing the truck in gear, he eases back onto the road where the snow falls in unpredictable sheets with the precision of a drunk dart player.
"Yeah, super mature." My fingers dig into the edge of my seat as the bed of the truck fishtails in slow motion before catching grip again. "That's why you're sending my brother eggplant emojis and debating my sexual preferences. For someone who claims they're staying out of my slots, you sure had a lot to say about them."
The words fly out before I can stop them. Chance's grip on the wheel tightens, his jaw doing that telltale tick that says I've gotten under his skin.
"Besides," I continue, unable to resist poking the bear. “Anyone who sticks with the Tab A into Slot B routine is clearly working with training wheels. The real fun starts when you—never mind, I wouldn't expect GI Joe to know what to do with a girl who's into more than missionary anyway."
"Don't.” The raw edge in his tone is a verbal shot of adrenaline straight to my bloodstream, sending a pulse of heat exactly where I don’t need it, making me squirm in my seat.
The narrowed side he aims at my lap tells me he definitely saw it. “Just… don't go there, Squirt."
The VACANCY sign at Wildwood Motor Lodge pulses through the snow in a steady red rhythm. The horseshoe-shaped buildingsprawls before us in all its vintage glory—the kind of place with exterior doors and metal keys, travel influencers would take selfies in front of and hashtag "authentic Americana."
If my mother knew I was about to stay at a motel where the doors open to the actual outdoors instead of climate-controlled hallways with crystal chandeliers, she'd need her prescription upped. A win-win. Sometimes being the family disappointment has its perks.
Chance pulls into a spot near the office, the heavy snow already starting to coat his windshield. "Stay here. I'll check us in."
"I'm perfectly capable of?—"
"Of breaking your neck in those heels on the ice? Yeah, I know." He's already opening his door, letting in a blast of frigid air. "Just… stay put, Squirt. For once in your life, let someone else handle it."
I cross my arms and slump back in my seat, absolutely not watching the way his shoulders bunch under his jacket as he trudges through the deepening snow.
The Army might have trained him to bark orders, but I stopped playing soldier the day my training bra got upgraded. Too bad my hormones never got the discharge papers, because they're still very much enlisted in whatever this is.
Ten minutes later, I’m bouncing on his damn shoulder again as he trudges through ankle-deep snow to room 112, the last one on the end. A rusty number hangs crooked on a door that's seen better decades. The key Chance holds has an actual metal tag attached—not a magnetic card in sight.
Some clanking and three muttered curses later, the door finally swings open with an ominous creak. Craning my neck, my gaze lands on the bed.
One bed.
Of course, there's only one bed. A queen-size monstrosity covered in a floral print so aggressively retro it would make Austin Powers question his taste level.
"Well," I say into the loaded silence. "This is…"
"Mature?" Chance supplies helpfully, echoing our earlier conversation before he unceremoniously tosses me onto the center of the bed.
I'm going to kill Charlie for jinxing us with her one-room prophecy. "Adult," I correct him. "We're adults. We can handle this."
"Keep telling yourself that, Squirt." He chuckles low as he heads for the door.
