Page 2 of Twin Babies for the Pucking Billionaires

“Thanks, Finn,” she says, her voice softening. “I’d appreciate the ride.”

We walk to my car, the rain pouring down around us. I open the passenger door for her and she slides in, still clutching my jacket. I get in and start the engine, glancing over at her.

“So, where to?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

“Just take me anywhere but here,” she says, her voice small.

“I thought you were worried I would kill you.”

“Ah well! The last place I want to go is home. So…”

“You got it,” I say, pulling out of the parking lot. “I know just the place.”

As we drive, her scent floods the car. It’s sweet, like vanilla and something floral. It’s intoxicating. I can’t help but glance over at her every few seconds, trying to be subtle about it.

“So, what do you do?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

“Actually,” she says, “I’ve been thinking about starting an influencer business.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? You’d be perfect for it. You’re beautiful.”

She laughs softly. “Thanks. But I want to do more than just post pretty pictures. I want to focus on mental health and social media.”

“Why mental health?” I ask, curious.

She hesitates, then shrugs. “It’s personal.”

Before I can ask more, the radio starts playing a Taylor Swift song. “Love Story” I think it is. She starts humming along.

I smile, reaching over to turn up the volume. “I love this song.”

She looks at me, surprised, then starts singing along. “We were both young when I first saw you...”

I join in, even though I know I sound terrible. She laughs, shaking her head. “You’ve got a terrible voice.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, laughing with her. It’s a nice moment, just the two of us singing badly together.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at me. “So, where are you taking me?”

“It’s a nice, quiet place I’m fond of,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “But it’s my secret hideaway, so you can’t tell anyone.”

She crosses her heart. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”

“What do you think about ice cream?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Love it,” she says with a grin.

“Good,” I say, pulling into the parking lot of an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. It’s only drizzling now. The rain is calming down.

“Pablo’s Parlor?How have I lived in this city all my life and never heard of this place?” she asks, looking around. “Also why are they open so late?”

“I found out about it through my best friend,” I explain. “When I moved to Chicago from Arizona, I was homesick. Didn’t know anyone. One of the guys from the team, who’s now my best friend, brought me here. His family always came here when they were younger. As for being open late, I think they know that people escape work parties and need something to help them feel better.” I laugh.

“Your friend sounds nice,” she comments after laughing along with me for a moment.

“He’s the best.I hope one day you get to meet him.Now, can we go in?”

She smiles. “Okay.”

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