Shit.
Daphne has one arm braced on the ceiling of the car and her opposite leg pressing into my seat. “Can Ipleasehave a turn driving?”
I look every way I can look, breathing through the way my heart is trying to pound out of my ribs, then continue through the intersection, swinging left at the last minute to head toward the country highway and the Quickie-Lickie so that we can get gas.
I don’t hear Daphne draw a full breath again until we pull into the second gas station.
She huffs out a breath, and then she laughs.
Laughs.
“Holy shit, look at this. One of the scratch-offs I got to throw her off won us ten grand.”
Ten grand.
Ten grand.
I haven’t even begun giving away the millions I have in the trunk, and now I have another ten grand to deal with.
I lurch the car to a stop at a pump, realize I’ve once again parked backward for the gas tank, and I drop my head to the steering wheel.
The car honks.
Fuck.
Justfuck.
6
THINGS GET WORSE IN THE WORST-WORST WAYS
Daphne
In the interestof not being the total asshole that I could be, when we stop at a ValuKart Goods and Groceries after getting gas, Idon’tinsist Oliver try on any of the shirts with funny animal jokes on them.
It’s clearly causing him enough suffering that I only bought Cupholder-themed T-shirts at that Miles2Go, one of which he’s now wearing.
Voluntarily, for the record.
Kind of.
He changed into it in the car to get out of that undersized T-shirt that left nothing to my imagination when it comes to his body.
Not that seeing him shirtless helped steer my imagination away from his body.
Just—holy shit.
He’sripped.
That time I saw him in his tighty-whities, he was your average slender guy who was a little too cautious about everything.
Not buff like he’s been training for a boxing match when he wasn’t at his CEO’s desk for the past few years.
Nor nearly as forceful as he’s been since last night.
Oliver is?—
He’s notOliver.
