Me: YES
Gianna: It’s gonna be so hot, Auddie.
Me:
Astrid: We’ll know how hot it was depending on how many cartwheels she sends tonight.
I lift my gaze to the window as my ears perk at the sound of crunching gravel. A truck turns from the road into the driveway, and it’s black, not white.Brooks.
Me: He’s here! OMG. I’m sweating, you guys.
I squeal, running down the hall before he can see me. I don’t want to look desperate.
Astrid: Have fun. We love you.
Gianna: Yeah, yeah. Report back. I WANT DETAILS.
I shiver with excitement waiting for him to knock at the door.
A peace that I’ve dreamed of feeling drifts onto my heart like a feather blowing in the wind.
I’m finally that girl. And gosh, it feels good.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Audrey
“Do we have any more of those butterscotch candies?” Brooks asks from the driver’s seat. A pile of wrappers flows over the edge of the center console tray. There must be eighty at this point.
“No, I think you’ve officially demolished all of them,” I say, laughing. “I didn’t know you had a butterscotch obsession.”
“That will be one of a few obsessions you learn about me over the next few days.”
Oh. I grin, sitting back in my seat and getting as comfortable as I can with every nerve in my body crackling under my skin. The seatbelt is the only thing keeping me steady.
We’ve been in the car for an hour, meandering through the soft hills and valleys of Tennessee. Songs play through the truck speakers from a playlist I chose from his phone. He handed me the device and said to pick something. It was such a drastic difference from how most men handle their phones around me. They act like they have the nuclear codes saved in their notes. Brooks removed the passcode so I could change the songs at my leisure.
He taps the steering wheel in time with a rock song that I’ve never heard before.
“What’s your walkout song when you’re fighting?” I ask.
He looks at me over his shoulder, both brows lifted. “I thought you looked up the Malone fight? You didn’t do a deep dive on me?”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound conceited at all.”
“Not old fights? Not socials? Nothing?”
I laugh at the surprised look on his handsome face. “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but, no, I didn’t look you up at all other than to check out some pictures and pieces of the Malone fight. Why didn’t you mention that you were a champion?”
“Oh, that wouldn’t sound conceited at all,” he says. “Hi, I’m Brooks Dempsey, former middleweight champion.”
“If I were a champion of anything, I’d lead with that in every conversation.”
He snorts. “You would not.”
“Yeah, probably not.” I laugh, nestling back in my seat as the sun shines on my face. “So, what’s your walkout song?”
