I toss the phone aside, mulling over their tips. Halfway through analyzing how appropriate or inappropriate it would be to sit Addie on my lap, it strikes me that I’m overreacting.
She said I should be myself, so that’s what I’ll be. If I cross a line, she’ll have to deal with it.
Her fault for not laying down the ground rules.
Armed with that happy thought, I close my eyes and finally drift off to sleep.
Five minutes later, I’m awake.
At least it feels like five minutes, but my alarm kindly blares out that it’s five in the morning and time to get going. The first thing I do is head downstairs to fetch Addie’s luggage from the trunk of her car. I leave both suitcases outside her door and head back to my bedroom for a quick, cold shower.
I pack a large suitcase, adhering to the Monaco Grand Prix dress code Addie mentioned, then head to her room, checking she got up. The suitcases aren’t in the hallway anymore, but I still give the door a soft pat.
Any doubts I had about this weird-ass adventure dissipate the moment she flings the door open, dressed in a delicate, flowy summer dress and platform sandals, her hair in a careless knot at the back of her neck.
Effortlessly classy but sexy enough to rouse the morning hard-on I barely fucking tamed under the cold shower. Jesus, I’ll be jerking off ten times a day with this girl around.
“Morning,” she says, leaving the door ajar as she straightens the bed. “Sorry about barging into your bedroom last night. You look dashing.”
I guess the quick apology followed by a swift change of topic means she’d rather not go into detail.
I glance down at my light gray cotton pants and a linen button-down shirt, a few buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. “I’m glad you think so. Come on, I’m making pancakes and you’re on sous-chef duty.”
“Give me two minutes.”
So I do, ignoring the fluffy feeling in my chest that I’m not home alone in the morning for once.
To ensure Addie doesn’t stain her outfit with her usual messiness, I bundle her into a cooking apron, and only let her take it off when we leave the house.
“I’d grab my luggage, but I know you won’t be happy if I do, so... it’s upstairs.”
“You’re learning. That’s a good sign,” I say, dropping my suitcase into the trunk. “I do the heavy lifting around here. Hop in. I’ll be right back.”
Once everything’s loaded and I double-check that Addie’s safely strapped in, I slip into the driver’s seat, handing her my phone with Spotify open on the screen. “You’re the DJ.”
She skims my playlists, settling for the one titledDrivingand scrolls through it.
“No way! I love this song!” She sneaksa glance at me as the car fills with the iconic opening of “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
I put the volume up, tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel. Addie sings the chorus,playfully nudgingmy shoulder, a genuine smile gracing her full lips.
“I’m glad you took me with you last night. It was... an experience. I sign up for future events.”
The idea takes hold immediately, my head full ofus. I push the enticing images aside, aware I’m jumping the fucking gun yet again.
Jesus, I think I’d benefit from therapy.
The one-hour drive to LA only feels like ten minutes while we take turns picking songs.Arriving at the airport an hour ahead of our planned departure, we breeze through security in record time and enter the first-class lounge.
I sink into one of the comfy couches holding a bottle of water. Addie’s beside me, her handssubtlytrembling. “Nervous about the flight or introducing me to your family?”
“The flight. Well, just take-off and landing. I’ll be fine once we’re in the air.” She’s downplaying it, but there’s a pre-freak-out tremor to her voice.
“My sister-in-lawhates flying too. She always pops a Xanax for long-haul flights. Got any on you?”
Her leg bounces against the floor, cheeks pale, eyes wide. “I promise I’m not that bad.”
Yeah, she’s peachy.
