I squirm at the thought. “We can Uber. Text me your address and leave a key under the mat. We’ll find a couch to crash on.”
“I’m already in the car.” The timbre of his voice tells me he’s rolling his eyeshard.
“Are you wearing a shirt?”
He swears again, this time exasperated instead of annoyed. “I’ll see you soon,” he says in a low, gruff voice that sends a shiver down my spine. For some reason, his words register like a warning.
I rejoin Daphne under the blanket. “He’s on his way.”
“I could tell. You had that smile on your face.”
“The smile that means we’re not going to die of hypothermia?”
“The smile that means you’re thinking about West. Your eyes get kind of big and crazy, too.”
“Sounds flattering,” I say dryly. After a few minutes, I turn to her. “Do you really think my revenge scheme is ill-fated?”
“Doyouthink it’s going well?”
That’s enough conversation for now, I think.
Less than fifteen minutes after our phone call, West pulls his pickup truck parallel with the curb. Daphne and I stand, and I wonder what her plan is, blanket-wise. Does she care if West sees her nipples?
Do I?
(Yes. Yes, I do.)
West steps out of his car as a yellow Volkswagen Beetle pulls up to the curb behind him. “I think that’s Jazz,” Daphne says, and my relief is staggering. Jazz leans across the empty passenger seat and waves.
“Perfect! We’ll go with her! Sorry for bringing you all the way out here,” I tell West as he holds the passenger door open. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, with slippers on his feet and glasses on his nose. It’s a combination of choices that makes my throat dry.
Jazz rolls the window down. “Who’s coming with me?”
“Both of us!” I’m emphatic, leaving zero room for discussion.
“I hope you don’t mind sharing the couch,” she says.
“Nope!”
“Or cats. I have four.”
I tug the blanket toward the Volkswagen.
“You’re allergic to cats,” West says.
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are,” Daphne says.
“I’ll take a Benadryl,” I say tightly.
Daphne turns to me. “I love you, Mars, but not enough to be the big spoon, and especially not enough to wake up every thirty minutes and make sure your throat hasn’t closed up.”
I blink at her. “I’ll take the floor.”
She presses her hands together, pleading. “It’s the middle of the night, we’re both freezing, and there’s an obvious solution here.”
“But—”
