But he seems to get that. His smile is wry. “I’m in public, thus I am public domain in their eyes.”
“I bet it’s a lot easier to say that when pointing the camera rather than being pinned under its lens.”
“True. But you’ll never get people to admit it.” He holds the door to the parking garage stairs for me. “I’m sorry, though. I should have warned you so you had the choice to back out of flying with me.”
I stop short. “I’d never do that, August. Not for that reason.”
He stares at me for a beat, then we keep walking. Looking at him from under my lashes, I remember how long he’s been famous. The Luck Boys, as the press calls them, have been in the public eye since they were just kids. But it got really intense when they started college. How could a needy press ignore model handsome, incredibly talented siblings who were already part of a football dynasty? Impossible.
The garage smells of garbage, jet fumes wafting and the slow, hot baking of asphalt. But the light is dim, and my head filled with possible ways to comfort August, so I don’t initially see where he’s leading me. When he pulls out his keys, my fog clears, and I snap to attention.
“Is that...” I stare at the ancient SUV hulking in the parking space.
August glances over and a pleased expression spreads over his face. “The Grouch? Yeah.”
Blood whooshes to my feet, and I become a little lightheaded. The Grouch is a duck green, 1989 Jeep Wagoneer, complete with wood-paneled sides. Its formal name is Oscar the Grouch. Legend has it, my dad called it that as a kid because the big truck was always growling.
“You have Pops’s truck?” It comes out as a squeak. I hadn’t seen the old SUV for years. My grandfather had stopped driving it after a time, preferring the heated seats of a newer Volvo in his later years. Even so, too many memories were tied to the Grouch for me not to think of Pops.
A lump of emotion swells in my throat, as August watches me.
“Pops left it to me. I thought you knew.”
“No. I—ah, no. I didn’t think about what happened to it.” I pull myself together and give him a smile. “I’m happy you have it. I just didn’t think...”
In all honesty, when I’d been told about the trust and what it entailed, I’d assumed Pops had simply sold it off before he died.
August unlocks the trunk and deftly puts our suitcases inside. Tan carpeting lines the trunk. Shag carpeting in a trunk. It had always struck me as patently ridiculous. My eyes smart. Suddenly, I’m a blink away from crying.
“When I was in tenth grade,” he says, “I went to that football camp at USC.” Dark brows knit over stormy eyes. “Pegs and Pops let me and March stay with them for the rest of summer.”
“I went to visit Mom’s relatives in Italy that summer.”
“I remember. I was just a wee bit jealous of you going there.”
I hold back a laugh. If he only knew how much I’d wanted to come home when I’d learned August and March would be visiting the one year I was away the whole time. Upon reflection, I’m fairly certain that was arranged on purpose. Likely, my parents and grandparents had reservations about me sharing a house with the youngest Luck brothers all summer long. I’m still a little bitter about it, though.
August closes the trunk and guides me to the passenger door. He unlocks it. “Anyway, while I was there, Pops taught me to drive on this beast.”
“He did?” I grin at that. “Talk about a trial by fire.”
“I loved it.” He huffs out a small laugh. “Even if I was terrified the first few times I got behind the wheel. Felt like I was racing down the road in an out-of-control barge.” Glossy hair falls over his brow when he ducks his head. “Shocked the hell out of me when I got word that Pops had left it to me.”
“I’m glad you got it,” I say, fighting the urge to touch his arm. “I love the beast, but I never liked driving it. Clearly Pops knew you’d love it more.”
Raw emotion makes his voice thick. “I do. It means the world to me.”
I swear the ground tilts as if trying to push me into August, or into doing something ridiculous like hugging him close.
Flustered, I slide onto the worn leather seat and close my eyes for a moment. Gently, August closes the door, the familiar solid clunk of the metal ringing out in the quiet cabin. I open my eyes again when he lets himself into the driver’s side.
“It used to smell of wet dog, pipe smoke, and—”
“A whiff of old fish?” August supplies with a knowing look. Pops loved to fish off the Santa Monica Pier and bring home his catch, despite the fact that my grandmother, who everyone called Pegs, hated fish. “I had the car fully restored. Sorry to say that particular miasma of Grouch is no more.”
“I can’t say as I’ll miss the funk.” Although I do a little.
I think he knows that, because his expression gentles, then hestarts the truck. It trembles and growls, my seat vibrating. I run my hand along the leather captain’s seat armrest as August takes us out into the California sun.
