A loud chirping sound fills the cab of the truck, and we both realize Weston’s phone is ringing. Like a gentleman, he ignores it, and for some reason this pleases me. He seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t think twice about taking a phone call while he’s on a date, ’cause normally, it just seems like he doesn’t…give a shit.
“Don’t you at least want to see who that was?” I ask, smiling.
“No. The only person I want to talk to is sitting right next to me.” He smiles over at me and his face transforms. His teeth are bright white against his freshly shaved skin. His eyebrows are dark and frame his eyes, making me want to slide over and kiss his face all over.
Oh crap.
Newsflash: guys can’t just go around saying romantic shit like that! The only person I want to talk to is sitting right next to me—now what the hell am I supposed to say? Don’t you think that’s a tad too upfront for our age—too honest? I glance out the window, trying to conjure up some semblance of an intelligent response. Someone help me! Where is Jenna when I need her?
On second thought, her advice would probably be terrible, and probably…slutty.
Which…at this juncture, doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.
If I’m being honest.
Heat rises in my face, and I look back at Weston, who has his eyes on the road.
Good boy.
I slowly let my eyes graze his body, starting with the hard thighs in the dark dress pants he’s wearing. Even though I can’t actually see them, I know the abs under that bright aqua polo shirt are flat, flat and chiseled—at least in my vivid imagination they are. Flat, chiseled, and sweaty… I swallow hard and bite my lower lip. He has both hands clutching the wheel, and I study his tattoos. Now I’m just checking out his arms. The muscles in his forearms flex, and when he turns his head toward me, our eyes meet.
I smile shyly, embarrassed to be caught checking him out.
Weston clears his throat loudly, and with a slight adolescent squeak, he manages, “So, uh…did you have fun at the game this week?”
Oh, thank god he’s asking questions. I thought this was going to be awkward.
“Honestly, it was so intense. I was practically chewing on my blanket.”
“Really?” He seems surprised, although I’m not sure why.
“Are you kidding me? When Cole Murdock scored on that trick shot during the fourth quarter by coming straight up the middle, I almost wet myself.” I can’t keep the enthusiasm out of my voice, and of course I would say something like that out loud.
Weston makes a pfft sound and scoffs, trying not to sound impressed by my jargon, but lips don’t lie—he is all smiles. “Please, that was such a rookie move. Anyone could have pulled that off. Besides, Murdock is a puss—uhh…” His voice trails off.
“I’m sorry, what were you about to call him? Cole Murdock is a what…?” I cup my hand around my ear and lean in like I’m hard of hearing. Chuckling, I flop back against the seat again and fold my arms across my chest, smirking with satisfaction. “Nice one, Weston.” He looks at me, and his eyes flicker to my boobs, which are currently being plumped up further by my arms. He’s totally getting an eyeful.
Whoops.
“You can call me Wes, you know.”
Hmmm. “What if I don’t want to?” I ask boldly with a slightly flirty lilt to my voice. Great, next I’ll be twirling my hair around my finger and giggling at him. “I like the name Weston. It suits you.”
“Honestly, you can call me anything you want.”
“Aww, I bet you say that to all the girls.” Flirt, flirt, flirt, my subconscious shouts at me.
This earns me a queer look, and he tips his head sideways as he looks out the front windshield at the road ahead of him. “Um, yeah…no. There are no other girls. Nice try though.”
* * *
Weston
It’s really hard to concentrate on driving with Molly sitting there flirting, looking ten kinds of sexy. Her tan boobs are pushed up in that white strapless top, and this fantasy of pulling over onto the side of the road and trailing wet kisses up and down her neck is seriously fucking with my head. I can barely keep my eyes on the road, so I clutch the steering wheel tighter. She seriously needs to stop talking, because everything coming out of her pert little mouth is rendering me practically senseless.
I can barely form an intelligible sentence.
What the fuck?
Molly and I continue to talk easily, but my responses…er, I can’t tell you what is coming out of my mouth at this moment—mostly grunting and lots of “Uh huh, yeah,” because I can’t focus on the conversation. My sole goal is to get us to our destination in one piece.