Page 132 of Sweet Temptation

I was wrong.

At the beginning of the drive, she’d been silent. She’d immediately connected her phone to the car’s entertainment system and put on some music. She seemed resistant to Andre’s attempts to make conversation from the front seat. She sat alone in the back, and maybe she would’ve tried to keep giving me—and Andre, too—the cold shoulder, the way some women did when they were pissed at you.

I might’ve preferred that, actually.

Instead, she turned off the music and played round after round of “name that song” with Andre. They tossed first lines of songs at each other, back and forth, for like forty-five minutes.

I didn’t say a word.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to them. I just couldn’t have kept up if I’d tried.

Then they got into a debate about the correct lyrics to Beck’s “Loser.” Which went on for a good ten minutes. They were pretty much yelling at each other—with laughter—by the time I cut in.

“How about you both agree to be losers, and we move on.”

We were in the mountains in a dead spot, no signal, so they couldn’t look it up on the internet and settle the argument anyway.

“He’s just jealous,” Andre informed Summer, “because he can’t keep up. He doesn’t even know who Beck is.”

I was jealous. At this point, I wasn’t even gonna lie to myself and pretend otherwise. Because almost an hour of music trivia, and I had no clue what they were talking about most of the time.

But mainly it was irritating the shit out of me that Andre was making Summer laugh, while I couldn’t even look her in the eye in the rearview mirror.

I tried to shoot him a look that said, Back off. I fucking lied. I slept with her last night and you need to stop making her do that sexy laugh.

Unfortunately, Andre wasn’t one for picking up on the subtleties of the complex male/female relationship variety. Maybe one of the reasons he was perpetually single.

I sighed and muttered, “I know who Beck is.”

I did. Vaguely. I couldn’t have named one of his songs if you put a gun to my head, though.

“New challenge,” Andre announced. “Songs with your name in the title.”

“What, Andre?” Summer said sarcastically. “Yeah. Millions of songs about that guy.”

“Nope. Summer. Go.”

“Holy shit, you’re gonna die. I do hope you’re kidding. I’d hate to humiliate a man…”

“Not kidding at all.”

“I am gonna mop the floor with you. Why would you even—”

“I mean, if you can’t handle the challenge—”

“‘Summer Fever’! By Donna Summer. And yes, you have to say the artist, every time, fucker. You can’t just make up songs.”

“‘Summer Days,’” Andre said cooly. “Bob Dylan.”

“‘This Summer’s Gonna Hurt Like a Motherfucker.’ Maroon 5. You’re toast, baby.”

“‘The Boys Of Summer,’” Andre replied, completely unfazed. “Don Henley.”

“‘Sweet Summer Lovin’,’” Summer said. “Dolly Parton.”

“‘Summer Nights.’ John Travolta and Olivia Newton John.” Andre glanced at me. “She vastly underestimates me.”

I gave him a cold look. He was impressing her, and it was pissing me off.

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