“Thanks, but no thanks.” I shake my head. “I came here on business. Nothing has changed.”
He arches an eyebrow. “You must really like Sycamore Heights, huh? In a real hurry to get back…”
“It’s a nice place.”
“Nice place, or nice guy you found yourself out there?”
I bite my tongue. Esteban knows me like he knows himself. I can’t give him an inch, because he’ll take more than a mile—every time.
“Look after yourself, Es.”
“Don’t you worry about me.”
I slide behind the wheel and gun it, putting distance between us, my mind clearing with every mile.
Now that I’m alone in my Pontiac again, I feel weird. Turns out it wasn’t so bad having Lewis riding shotgun, after all. In fact, it was kind of nice—though he probably thinks I’m a complete shit show at this point.
When my phone starts to ring five minutes later, the name flashing up on my screen makes me grin despite myself.
Who are you, and what have you done with Amy?
“What’s the problem, Conley?” I ask, keeping my voice as level as I can.
“No problem. Just letting you know I’m right behind you.”
I glance in the mirror.
“I’ve been waiting by the roadside since forever. What took you so long? Everything okay?”
Oh, everything’s fine. Just an ex I find super triggering, but other than that…
“All good with me!” I chirp. “So, you’re just gonna tailgate me to the motel? Is that the situation?”
“Yup. Wanna race?”
I laugh. “I think I’ve had my fix for today.”
“Seriously, Amy,” he starts. “Thank you so much for—”
“Nope!” I cut him short. “Don’t wanna hear it.”
I hate thank-yous almost as much as I hate gifts and singing cartoon characters. It’s like I just don’t know what to do with them.
“You don’t want to hear all my awkward thank-yous?”
Got it in one.
“Wanna chat while we drive?” he tries.
“Double nope.”
I can practically hear him smiling. “I like a woman who knows what she doesn’t need.”
“What this woman needs right now is music.”
And to get my breathing under control before I crash. The way his voice is booming out of my speakers like this is too much to handle. Images of his mouth go flashing by—his lips on mine, his tongue against mine, his…
I clench my thighs and hang up, and when I catch him laughing in the rearview mirror, I crank up the volume. Anything to get myself back under control. My heart sinks. Spending a second night together in a single bedroom is definitely not going to help things. So how come I’m secretly hoping the guy at the front desk will say there’s only one room available—and it justhappensto have the world’s smallest bed?
