While I sit in the drive-through, he gets out, walking to the side of the building and stretching his arms over his head. I watch the movement of his long body, the muscles of his arms rippling as he leans side to side.
He turns, and I catch a glimpse of skin when his T-shirt rises. I see the two lines of muscle on his waist, disappearing into his jeans, and my bottom lip slides between my teeth. I’m in a haze of lust when my eyes drift higher and lock on his.
His lips curl into a smile, and it’s a slam of full-force sex appeal.
“Miss?” The voice on the loudspeaker is impatient. “Can I take your order, please?”
“Oh, shit!” I jump. “I’m sorry! I just need a tall dark roast with cream. Sorry.”
“Will that be all?”
“Yes. Yes, that will be all.”
Driving around, I pull the neck of my sweater away from my throat. How did it get so hot in here? Reaching forward, I push the button for the air-conditioner.
“A/C? Really?” Scout climbs in on the passenger’s side as if nothing happened. “It’s only seventy-five degrees.”
“I feel stuffy. Must be the humidity.”
Passing the girl my payment, I take the coffee and put it in the cup holder, focusing on the road as I get us back to the interstate. My heart is beating too fast, and I’m breathing like I just jogged up a flight of stairs, which is silly. So, so silly.
“You have a great singing voice.” Scout tilts his head, looking at me.
I’m quiet a moment, then I blink to where he’s studying me from the passenger’s side. Forcing a smile, I look back at the road. “Thanks.”
“How is it you know the freakin’ oldest Olivia Newton-John song of all time?”
“My mom was a fan.”
“No way, mine too!”
“They were probably the same age. Our moms, I mean.”
I reach for the cup, and I notice my fingers tremble. So silly.
I have seriously got to get a grip. I was never into Scout Dunne. We went to one dance together at the very beginning of senior year, and after that, we were just friends until we both graduated and went our separate ways.
“How old was she?” Genuine interest imbues his tone, and he shifts around in the seat again to face me.
“What do you mean?” Glancing over, I catch his dark brow furrowed over his eyes.
“When she had you. How old was she?”
“Oh… Twenty-eight, I guess.”
He slaps my shoulder. “Mine too. That explains it.”
“So, you grew up watching Grease?”
Squeezing his eyes shut, he belts at the top of his lungs, “You’re the one that I want…”
I start to laugh. I remember the nights when my dad would be working late, researching some artifact we didn’t care about, and Mom and I would curl up on the couch to watch whatever was on.
“I’ve got one.” He narrows his eyes like he’s being sly, but I know what he’s going to say.
We both sing it out at once. “Xanadu!”
“Now we are here…” he continues.
My stomach squeezes, and we both laugh. He grabs his phone and quickly taps something out on the screen. The song surrounds us, and we start to sing again.
I can barely breathe from laughing and singing, and I shake my head. “You’re a really good singer, too. I mean really good.”
“Thanks.” He leans forward, propping his forearms on his thighs. “I wish I was a better dancer. It seems like actors now can sing, dance… It’s like old-school Hollywood all over again.”
Pressing my lips together, I nod. “I get that.”
“Anyway, you said you weren’t afraid of anything. I call bullshit.” He points a finger at me. “What are you afraid of? Snakes? Rats? Water? Flying?”
My insides are fizzy, and I laugh again because I can’t help it. Ducking my chin, I answer quietly, like it’s a dark confession. “Spiders.”
“Sorry, what was that?” He leans closer.
“Spiders!” I shout.
“Yassss, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Survey says? Spiders for the win.”
“You are so crazy. How is that for the win?”
“They made a whole movie called Arachnophobia. Tell me another fear they made into a movie.”
“Uh, hello? They made a whole genre of movies based on fear. It’s called horror.” My curls bounce around my cheeks as I look back and forth from him to the road.
“That’s just general murder-type, creepy supernatural stuff. It’s not like a specific phobia.”
“Insomnia?”
“Nice try.” He pats my shoulder. “Not a horror movie. Also not a phobia. A terrible condition, but not a phobia.”
“Sorry, Mr. I’ve Seen Every Movie Ever Made.” I laugh, glancing at the sign and realizing we’re approaching Greenville. “I can’t believe we’re almost there.”
“Lead foot.”
“I wasn’t!” My voice goes high, and I check my speed.
I haven’t been speeding. We’ve simply been chatting the whole way, singing at the top of our lungs, and getting to know each other better. My brow furrows as I glance over at him looking out the window at the passing scenery.
I can’t do this. I can’t fall for him. I’m not the quiet, bookish librarian-type who falls for the superhot, all-American football star.
At least I never was before.
Four
Scout
When J.R. and I were kids, and it was too rainy or cold for us to play outside, our dad would park us in front of the television to watch Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. We watched it a lot.
After a while, my brother got pretty bored, but I could watch it a hundred times and never be bored. I fucking loved that movie. I wanted to be the young Indiana Jones so bad, finding lost treasures, riding horses, running away from bad guys across the tops of trains, falling in a vat of snakes…
Daisy’s dad is exactly like Sean Connery in those movies. He barely even looks up when we enter his shop, a crowded, window-lined showroom filled to the brim with antiques.
“I was giving you one more hour,” he growls from behind a desk in a back office.
He’s blocked from our view by a wall of small boxes. Scattered around them is old shit I imagine must be worth something. Several funny little ceramic cherubs and stacks of Pokémon cards are on the tables. He has a few old watches and a broken camera that looks like it came out of that first Wonder Woman movie.
“Are you serious?” Daisy’s tone is sharper than I’ve ever heard. “I spoke with you on the phone exactly three hours ago and said I was on my way.”
The man looks up at her with the same deep brown eyes as hers. “I wasn’t holding you to it, Daughter. If you’d decided you didn’t want it, I wasn’t going to be out a sale.”
She hisses an exhale, shaking her head. “I don’t have eight-fifty today.”
“What?” He leans back in his chair giving her an exasperated look. “When will you have it, then?”
“I’ll charge it to the renovation account—until I’m sure I don’t want to keep it for myself.”