“Let’s go.”
______
I sit like a dog with my head almost out the window, needing the air to cool me. The closer we get to the venue, the more I want to grab the wheel and turn Cole’s Range Rover around. I want my comfy baggy sweats and no people.
“You ok?” Cole’s voice breaks through my internal battle.
“I’m. . .fine,” I lie, not caring even a little if the wind messes up my hair, although Lyla would be screaming at me. “I’m just. . .too hot.”
I lean a little further, thinking about shoving a wad of Kleenexes in my armpits to stop the sweat from rolling down my sides. I bet the masses of cameras would love that shot.
I tug on the hem of my dress for the thousandth time, but all it does is shrink right back to way too close to showing everything.
“Should I. . .call the police or a fireman?” Cole’s voice is so casual that it takes a moment for his words to register.
I’m sure at the rate of a sloth, my head swivels in his direction. His eyes remain dead ahead on the red stoplight, but there’s the slightest tilt to his lips.
Does he know? There’s no way.
“What?” I ask, ready to inspect his every movement, breath, and twitch for confirmation.
“You said you were too hot.” Those periwinkle eyes spear mine, and if I weren’t me, I’d never be able to tell.
He knows!
I’m a steel pipe firm in place, and he may think he knows, but he has no idea. Bruno will remain all mine. I may live with this guy, but he will not infiltrate that part of my life. The part where I find just the tiniest bit of happiness and strength, and what might be the only hint of joy and peace I may ever experience.
I face the window.
Damn him.
Why does that smirk make me bite my lip to keep from smiling, too? Then, he does it.
“I’m too hot. Hot damn. Call the. . . ”
His pitch is high and a bit off-key, but when I face him, he’s dancing as he singsmy song. I watch him. I don’t know anythingabout dancing, but I see that Cole can move, and I’m no longer able to hold it in.
I cover my mouth and laugh as he moves his arms and shoulders, dancing and singing in the driver’s seat.
He stops after a second, his eyes locking with mine, the corners still wrinkled with amusement. “It’s a good song. I wouldn’t have pictured you as a Bruno Mars fan.”
I return my focus to the mirrors and road, knowing there are loads of things I never want him to picture about me.
“What’s your pregame jam?” I ask, shoving the focus off me and my only indulgence.
“Right now, Johnny Cash. It’s what my dad listened to.”
I wonder if Cole ever deviates from his dad’s routine and instruction, or if it’s his way of dealing with missing him. “I guess that makes sense.”
“So, is it just that song or the whole Bruno repertoire?”
Crap.
He dropped the bait like a bass who’d seen a hook or two. “I like a few of his other songs.”
I can feel him watching me like he’s the one searching for tells now.
“Which ones?”
