I smiled despite myself. “You’re very hostile for someone who just came on my tongue.”
“It’s a conundrum I know.”
“That sounds like something a criminal would say.”
“I prefer orgasm opportunist.”
“Tiny orgasm criminal.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Careful, Cross Check.”
There it was. The nickname. That little flick of attitude that hit differently now because I knew what she sounded like without the attitude. I knew what happened when her sharp mouth lost words. I knew the way her breath caught when she stopped trying to win and just felt.
My fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
“What happened to it?” I asked, dragging us back before my self-control decided to embarrass me.
Her expression softened again. “Dad couldn’t keep it after she died,” she admitted quietly. “Too many memories.” She shrugged gently. “He sold the trailer a few years later.”
Silence settled softly between us after that, not awkward, just weighted. The kind of silence that belonged to grief and old family things I didn’t have the right to touch too hard. Then she glanced over at me.
“Does your mom work?”
I snorted under my breath. “Define work.”
Pip laughed instantly, turning slightly toward me in her seat. “Okay, fair. What does she do then?”
“My mother is a socialite.”
“Impressive, I think.” She grinned. “What exactly does a socialite do?”
“The honest answer?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing.”
She laughed harder at that, warm and bright enough to make the inside of the Range Rover feel smaller.
“No, seriously,” I continued, smiling despite myself. “Lunches. Tennis. Country clubs. Charity galas. Expensive vacations. Hanging out with women who are equally rich and equally bored.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She studied me quietly for a second after that before asking more softly, “You guys really aren’t close at all?”
My grip tightened slightly against the steering wheel. Not because the question bothered me, but because the answer always felt strange saying out loud. Like I should care more. Like some part of me was defective because I had learned young not to expect warmth from people who technically belonged to me.
“I couldn’t tell you my mom’s favorite color,” I admitted honestly. “Or her favorite food. Favorite movie. Favorite song.” I shrugged slightly. “But I do know she loves Aperol spritzes, expensive champagne, and martinis that taste like paint thinner.”
Pip smiled faintly at that, but I still caught the sadness in her eyes immediately.
There it was again.
That look.
The one that made me want to take every soft thing in her and hide it somewhere nobody else could touch. Not pity. If it had been pity, I would have hated it. This was different. She hurt for me before she could stop herself, like her heart reacted faster than her brain could remind her I wasn’t asking for anything.
