I pull out my phone and shoot Brynn a text.
You never gave me the new key, dipshit.
Message not delivered.
She’s still on the plane. Brainstorm time, Beck. “Where’s your car? Why are you here?”
She gives me a blank stare. “Well, that’s rude. First of all, my car is at the house I rented.”
I’ll admit, I did come off more gruff than intended.
I perk up at this information, though. “Perfect, I’ll just take you back to your place.” I didn’t know she was back, like living here. I figured she was visiting.
“My keys are locked in it.”
“Did you lock yourself out of your house, too?”
“I wish.” She sighs, looking defeated. “The water main wanted to be a natural wonder of the world.”
I stare at her, trying to translate what she said.
“Jesus, Beck. It burst. There’s water all over everything. Well, not that I really had much, honestly. Either way. Ruined and waiting on the sketchy landlord to text me back.”
I glance at my phone. 9:42 pm. It’s getting too late to mess with all the bullshit tonight.
“Sorry, Beckett. Thanks for trying. If you could drive me to town, I can get a room there. I’ll give you gas money. I mean, I will anyway, since you came all this way.”
Why the fuck does she always ramble? It’s never just to the point. “I’m not taking you to the fucking motel, Clover, and I don’t need your gas money.”
I think about dropping her on my parents’ doorstep, but I know her. It’ll make her feel super low. Do I care, though?
Apparently, I do.
“Come on. It’s late. I have stuff to do, and you aren’t staying at the bedbug and breakfast.”
She actually laughs. Like . . . a real laugh. It takes me by surprise, honestly. Obviously, I knew she could laugh. Everyone can. On top of that, her laugh specifically kept me awake longer than I wanted to be for the majority of my life. It just rarely happened because of me, unless she played a prank on me. Even then, it was at me, not because of me. There were a few times, though, in the backyard . . .
Nope. Not going there.
“Where are you taking me?” She sounds unsure.
“I’m not a stranger, Clover. You don’t have to worry, I’m not gonna murder you or whatever.”
“I don’t know. That kinda sounds exactly like what a murderer would say to a murderee.”
I grumble, rubbing my temple.
“Murderee. Lord. Get in the fucking truck, Clover Jane.”
Her eyebrows arch, taken aback for a second before giving me a dumb salute.
“Yes, Sir, Bucket, Sir.”
I don’t understand why the sound of her calling me Sir makes me uncomfortably hot suddenly, but I’m glad it’s dark. I know my face could rival a tomato in color right now.
She spins on her heels, grabs her backpack, and we run to the truck.
We are both soaked. This is one of the many times I’m incredibly grateful for heated seats. We sit there for a moment, both trying to shake off the shock of the temperature change. It’s dark in the truck because I have the cab light off, but a streetlight is reflecting off of Clover’s backpack, which is sitting on her lap. Does it have a window? Weird.
