He shoots me a look, half-amused, half-exhausted. “I’ll have to disagree with you on that. Besides… I’ll have you know, I’m capable of at least three emotions… hunger, sarcasm and panic.”
“Truly incredible,” I tease. “Men everywhere need lessons from you.”
He smiles, leaning back in the seat, his hand finding mine on the console. It’s a move that’s strange given our recent reconnection and yet feels totally natural, like our digits should have crossed long ago. “Thanks for being there,” he says, head rolling to look at me. “I didn’t realize how much I needed you until I looked up and saw you laughing in the corner.”
“Laughing with you, not at you,” I clarify. “Mostly.”
He chuckles. “Mostly.”
We lapse into comfortable silence as we cross the bridge into town. For a few quiet minutes, everything feels easy.
“You gonna talk to your parents tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I need to. Derek has a newsletter blast going out tomorrow morning and he’s going to hit all the social media channels. I’m out of time.”
“Remember… what you’ve accomplished is incredible and you should be proud.”
“I am,” he says, turning his gaze to me. “Just hope it goes better than I’m picturing.”
My focus cuts from the road to him, and my heart aches a little over the worried expression creasing his forehead as he stares out at the passing scenery. But then his eyes widen in astonishment, and I turn my attention forward.
“What the hell is that?” Sam asks, sitting up straighter.
Because gathered right in front of the courthouse is a group of people walking in a small, circular picket line. They’re waving homemade signs and the leader, Mrs. McCreery, a retired schoolteacher, is shouting something through a megaphone.
I slow the car. “Looks like… a protest?”
Sam squints. “A protest against what? We haven’t had a scandal since Floyd accidentally set fire to his yard last Fourth of July.”
I roll closer to the curb, reading the signs as we approach.
Protect Our Youth—Ban Filth!
Keep Smut Out of Whynot!
Romance Novels Rot the Soul!
I blink. “Are they—? They can’t be—?”
Then I see it.
Right there in red block letters, outlined with glitter for flair:
SAM-PETE ROCHELLE—REPENT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!
“Holy—”
“Fuck,” Sam mutters, cutting me off. “That’s my name.”
“You don’t say,” I deadpan.
He points. “That one literally has my face taped to a devil emoji.”
“Oh, that’s creative,” I say faintly.
“Pull over,” he says, already unbuckling. I hear the anger in his voice.
“Sam, wait—”
