She holds up her hand proudly. “See? That is how you do it.”
“Oh my God, wipe it off!” I swerve slightly, heart pounding as I lean toward the glove compartment and grab the extra napkins from the fast food I pretend I don’t eat.
She laughs and rubs her hand down her jeans. “You see the form? The control?”
“I see that you’re a fucking menace.”
She props her elbow on the center console and smirks. “Alright. Your turn.”
I whip my head toward her so fast my neck pops. “Are you out of your damn mind?”
Demi shrugs. “Practice makes perfect.”
“I am driving!”
“So? Just do a little one.”
I gape at her, scandalized. “I am not spitting in my own hand while operating a moving vehicle.”
Demi sighs dramatically, shaking her head. “This is why men keep winning, Sable.”
I huff a breath, long and suffering, and glance at Demi. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
She just folds her arms and leans back in her seat, smug as hell. “Nope. You wanna rock his world or not?”
I groan, adjusting my grip on the wheel. “Fine.”
Demi perks right back up. “Yes! Okay, just remember: not too much, not too little. And for the love of all things holy, do not hock up anything nasty. Thisisallergy season.”
I cringe but extend my free hand, palm up.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, trying to make sense of the foreign limb in front of me, as if it’s not attached to my body.
Demi gestures encouragingly. “Just go for it.”
I take a breath, hype myself up, and lean in—
—and immediately freeze.
Oh my God. I can’t do this.
What if it’s too thick? What if it’s not thick enough? What if I just start drooling mid-moment, helpless and mortified, a grown-ass woman with the motor control of a teething baby? Oh, fuck. What if it lands weird and I get spit on the floor? Jesus Christ, what if Hex is looking down at me, waiting, expecting something sexy and confident, and I just spit a sad little string onto my fingers?
My heart rate spikes.Oh my God.
“Sable.” Demi’s voice is sharp, reeling me back in. “You’re thinking too much. It’s spit. Not a science project.”
I swallow hard. “I just—I don’t want to mess it up.”
She snorts. “Babe, you’re not deactivating a bomb. Just spit.”
Right. Okay. Just spit.
I steel myself, open my mouth—
And at the last second, panic wins. I barely produce a weak little pffft of moisture; an embarrassingly dry attempt that barely even registers.
Demi gasps with the intensity of someone watching their legacy go up in flames. “Ohhellno.”
