“Turns out all of this could have been avoided if you had just remembered, like the rest of the entire world, to get gas. Oh right. You’re not actually a responsible adult, though. Silly me. How could I have forgotten?”
Cliff’s face transforms from an aggravated, pissed off, sort of amused in a really shitty way look into something that more closely resembles a fire-breathing dragon. Or maybe an angry mother bear. Or maybe a swarm of nasty ass wasps who just had their hive knocked off of whatever building they were making themselves a nuisance on. “Oh, but if this had never happened,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t have gotten to see your true colors, and let me tell you, they are very colorful. You put on a very good front. I applaud you for your acting skills. You should consider a change of career when you lose this job.”
“And maybe you should consider putting on your big boy panties and acting like an actual mature adult who has half a brain.”
“Big boy panties?” Cliff scoffs. “Oh, I assure you, there is nothing wrong with my panties, and I wear them proudly. Every. Single. Day.”
Wow. I turn away, fuming silently. I don’t want to think about his male panties. Boxers. Briefs. Whatever he has on underneath his dark wash jeans. “Thank you for confirming for me that every single good-looking guy is indeed a conceited asshole. I needed that extra bit of science to push me over the edge into a firm belief.”
“Good to know you were set against me from the start. That’s the real reason you’re single. Because someone screwed you over, and now you can’t put yourself out there again.”
Oh, that is it. That is seriously it. Too far. That is MILES across the line. “Ha!” I snort. I laugh hard, but it’s one of those extremely pissed off laughs, just like Cliff’s was. “Takes a damaged one to know one.”
That seems to silence Cliff. I’m facing the windshield, and I’m not going to turn to look at him. I’m sure he has a lemon-faced expression on that likely matches mine. We don’t need to look at each other. What I need is to get the double eff out of this car and get on with my life and forget that Cliff Marshall ever existed.
All our furious, fuming insults have fogged up the windows and the windshield. Too much heavy, angry breathing will do that, I guess. It’s not warm out by any means, and it feels like it’s a thousand degrees in the car. If I turned around and found Satan himself sitting in the backseat, I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s literally that hot and uncomfortable.
I can’t say this is the proudest moment of my life. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I can’t stop myself. My hand reaches out, my finger trembling. I reach for the fogged-up windshield and draw a circle. I fill it in with angry eyebrows, squinty, angry eyes, and a furious square mouth clenching its teeth. Yeah. I’m such an artist.
The car is silent for a minute, and I think we’re both holding our breaths. Cliff releases his breath first, and I follow. He lets out a nervous, reluctant sounding chuckle. “I guess now that we have that out of the way, I’ll call a tow truck to bring some gas.”
“You should consider getting a membership to some company where you get roadside assistance.”
“I have one, actually.”
I slowly turn to stare at Cliff, but he’s looking down at his phone. His nose wrinkles, and he sighs hard and sets it aside.
“What? What’s wrong with your phone?”
“It’s dead,” he admits. “I don’t have a charger.”
I could get into how this seems like a pretty apt metaphor for life and further proof to everything I just said, but I want to prove I’m an adult instead of a hypocrite, so I silently pull my phone out of my tote and hand it over.
“Here. Use mine.”
Cliff takes it wordlessly. He makes the call, and when he’s done, he passes it back with a sheepish expression. “They’ll be over an hour. I’m—uh, sorry.” That last word is painful, I can tell.
“Don’t be.” I tuck my phone back into my tote and reach for the door handle. “Have a good night. I’ll be in touch with information for your next match.”
“Where are you going?”
I open the door and step out but lean down before I shut it. “Home,” I say flatly. “I’m going home by cab. Goodnight.” I shut the door a little harder than I should. The resounding thud gives me just the smallest amount of satisfaction.
Hey, I have to derive a little bit of pleasure where I can because I now know for sure that I am in serious trouble. Cliff Marshall isn’t just difficult. He’s the absolute worst. New job, here I come.
CHAPTER 7
Cliff
The morning after my failed dry run date, I jump in my car, intent on getting a coffee. My garage is heated, but the second I drive the car out, and it hits the cold air, the windows start fogging up. The windshield gets in on the action, and I have to put the car back in park. I crank the heat, and while I wait for the glass to clear off, my eyes are invariably drawn to the right-hand corner. The angry face that Rowan drew last night from the passenger seat has magically reappeared.
I stare hard at the angry eyebrows and the slash of a mouth. Yeah. The face was seriously pissed off. About as pissed as the person who drew it.
The longer I stare at the face, the worse I feel. I didn’t sleep well last night,
