“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.”
He slaps his knees and stands, shaking his head in annoyance. She shakes her head the same way, stomping after him, and I suppress a grin at their similar manner.
Following them into the showroom, I watch Daisy’s cute little ass sway in those cutoffs. She left that enormous cardigan in the truck, and she’s got a sweet little body, curves in all the right places, narrow waist, round ass, small but perky little tits.
Last night, I pretty much swore her off when my brother suggested it. Then I got to thinking, she’s not going to be here for long either. What’s wrong with having a little fun? Judging by our dance and the way the pink flooded her cheeks every time I teased her, she might be into it, too.
“This is a Victorian Era wingback from the turn of the twentieth century.” Her dad is scolding. “Don’t sit in it when you’re wet or sweaty—”
“I know, Dad, I found it.” Daisy curls up in the bright yellow chair, sliding her cheek along the scalloped cushions.
She’s surrounded by plush velvet and carved wood, and if she wasn’t in cutoffs, I could imagine her stretching out and pointing a bare toe. Kind of like an old-school New Orleans sex kitten. Her dark eyes meet mine, and my stomach tightens.
“Do you think you can lift it?” She’s on her feet, bouncing over to me. “It’s heavier than I thought with all this wood. But
