“What?”
She shakes her head, amazement etched in her face. “I’ll have the exact same thing, only a medium-sized shake.”
“No way,” I say, stunned by her words.
She giggles. “Yes, way.”
I fight the urge to grab her hand and slide my fingers between hers as she shrugs off the coincidence, turning up the country music. But itmeanssomething to me. Like an illuminated billboard advertising what my heart already suspects.
For her part, she remains oblivious, an impenetrable wall between us. Or maybe an impassable gulf. Either way, I have to find a way to bridge the barrier.
The server returns with our meals in two sturdy white paper sacks, the delicious smell of fries and burgers filling the car. I set the bags on the console between us before sliding the shakes into drink holders.
“You really climbed that tree? I can’t wrap my head around it,” I say, unable to help myself.
“How embarrassing,” she murmurs, I assume still ruminating over her undergarments.
Catalina grabs a fry like it’s armor, chewing neat and precise, as if dignity can be rebuilt with ketchup and starch.
Her cheeks flush, but her eyes don’t drop. “Like a hundred times. Grew up chasing three older brothers. If they did it, I had to, too. Hockey, trees, dirt bikes … you name it.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, but her shoulders square like she’s daring me to laugh.
I blink. “Hockey?”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Only way to get their attention. I wasn’t half bad either, even if I was the only girl on the ice.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “No kidding. I played, too. Peewee leagues, then varsity. I would’ve killed to have you on my team.”
She rolls her eyes. “Please. My brothers only let me play goalie when they couldn’t find anyone else. I could barely stand up in all that gear.”
I picture her stubborn as hell, knees bent and ready to spring, refusing to quit while pucks fly her way. Fits her exactly. Tough, scrappy, heart bigger than her frame.
“You know what that tells me?” I lean in, elbow on the console. “You can take hits and keep standing.”
Her hand stills halfway to her shake. For the first time tonight, her smile fades into something softer. Something that looks a hell of a lot like mine probably did the first time someone reminded me I wasn’t just Hollywood, or a damn joke.
For a second, the diner disappears. It’s just her and me. And the recognition in her eyes feels like a spark catching, steady and sure.
Suddenly, Catalina’s eyes dart past my head, and the corners of her mouth turn down.
“What is it?” I ask, face heating.
“You’ve got a group of ladies,” she says, nodding past me. “Ogling you through the window.”
Shit! I should’ve rolled the windows back up after ordering, but the cooler night air felt refreshing.
Catalina hunches her shoulders, shrinking back into the seat. Like she’d rather disappear than compete with their noise. It guts me.She fiddles with her straw wrapper like she can make herself invisible. The urge to throw my arm around her and tell them to fuck off burns hotter than the auction spotlight.
“Goddammit,” I growl. “Is thereanywherewe can go to be alone?”
Five signatures, countless patiently answered questions, and an infinite number of selfies later, the women who gathered at the window refuse to respect our privacy.
I turn to Catalina red-faced and sullen. “These people won’t leave us alone. We have to go.”
Nodding, her face floods with empathy. She repacks our meals, holding the still-warm bags in her lap as we drive away to the jeers and waves of my “fans.”
Fans. The word doesn’t sit well with me.If they like me so much, why don’t they give me a break? Let me live my life?
A weighty, sultry silence settles between us as opaque as the night enveloping the truck. The only relief? The autumnal chill clinging to the air, and the faint sounds of Hunter Hayes’s “Wanted.” Though the crooning simultaneously amplifies the emotion building in the truck.
