Page 89 of Holiday Hire

"Yep. Are you looking for a good old-fashioned Texan bar or one of the fancy, new nightclubs?"

I question, "Are nightclubs your thing?"

He keeps his expression neutral. "I can hang."

"But you don't prefer them, right?"

"Not my first choice, but I can represent," he claims, then puts his hand on my thigh.

I put my arm on the console and lean closer. "Are you a closet dancer?"

"What is that?"

"You know, someone who surprises everyone and goes nuts to techno?"

He scoffs. "Techno gives me a headache."

"Me too."

"Good. We'll cross techno off the list."

"Deal. So you're a closet hip-hop lover?"

His lips twitch. "I'm more of a country or hard-rock guy, but I can handle hip-hop."

"Really?"

"I'll have you know I'm a very versatile human being."

I slap him lightly on the shoulder. "Duh. I already knew that."

His voice turns serious again. "You did?" He locks his gaze with mine.

My face falls. I match his tone. "Yes. Of course."

Something passes in his expression. I think it's relief, but I can't be sure. He returns his focus to the road.

I sit back in my seat.

He asserts, "Pick your poison, Pheebs. Do you want to live it up Texan style or hang like in L.A.?"

I tilt my head. "L.A.?"

He shrugs, grinning. "Yeah. L.A. has tons of clubs."

I groan. "I'm not a huge fan of L.A."

"No?"

I shake my head. "Nope! Want to know another secret?"

"Please. Spill it."

I hesitate, then admit, "Clubs aren't really my thing."

He dramatically gasps. "How very un-Californian of you!"

I put my hand over my face and groan. "Don't tell anyone."

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