Page 38 of Nothing Like the Movies

I ignored that—and my stupid fluttery stomach—as I pulled open the passenger door of Clark’s old Dodge truck.

But as soon as I looked inside, I sighed yet again.

Because his truck had a bench seat, which meant I’d be squished in the middle of a Wes-and-Clark front-seat sandwich. I’d ridden in his vehicle many times, but I’d never paid attention to the logistics of the decades-old Dodge.

Until now.

“Need a boost?” I heard from behind me.

“No, thank you,” I said through gritted teeth as I climbed into the truck.

I scooched as close as I could get to Clark without getting between him and the stick shift on the floor, but it wasn’t enough. When Wes’s big body slid in beside me and he closed the door, his thigh was touching mine.

His outer left was touching my outer right, his soft Nike sweatpants touching my black leggings.

I could feel the heat of his leg through the fabric, I swear to God.

I looked down and reached for the lap belt, very aware of how close my fingers were to his waist. Not only that, but his lowered head while he buckled his seat belt had our faces way too close together—Altoids—and his hands very nearly touching my waist as he clicked his buckle into place.

I almost headbutted him in my jerking attempt to back away from him.

He gave me a little smile, and I knew I looked like a skittish animal, like one of those cats overreacting to the presence of a damncucumber.

I could see in those dark eyes that he was fully aware of my internal chaos.

“Cool truck,” he said, his deep voice startling me (Iwasa freaking cat, dear Lord) in the quiet truck cab.

“Thanks, man,” Clark said, putting the truck in gear and letting out the parking brake. “It w—”

“Speaking ofcool,” Wes interrupted, and I looked away from him to stare at the back-and-forth of the windshield wipers. I couldn’t look at him anymore. “I think it’s reallycoolthat you’recoolabout Liz and me. About our history.”

My mouth fell open for a split second, because I couldn’t believe he was bringing this up to the guy he thought was my new boyfriend, but I quickly shut it before he knew his assholery had gotten to me. I couldn’t stop myself from muttering, “You just said ‘cool’ three times in one sentence.”

“Cool,”he muttered back, so quiet that I wasn’t even sure he’d said it.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Clark asked, shrugging and leaning forward to turn up the defroster. The windshield was completely fogged over. “I mean, if Liz says it’s ancient history, then I’m totally cool. Jesus Christ, it’s gonna be a minute—this bitch is impossible to see through.”

Wes turned his body a little, so he was facing us just the tiniest degree, and he said, “It’scool.”

Stop saying “cool”!

“I’m in no hurry,” Wes went on to say, “so I’m cool with waitingit out.”

The raindrops were loud on the truck roof, and I felt completely and utterly trapped between Nike sweatpants, my lies, and the past.

I reached out and cranked up the volume on the radio, so loud that conversation was impossible, and I swear to God, I heard Wes laugh.

But I couldn’t be sure.

Things didn’t get any better when we got to the restaurant.

Because as Clark stood beside the big table, filming the guys over there (mostly seniors) and laughing at their antics, I was attempting to take quality stills and keep it together in spite of the fact that the conversation at the smaller table turned toward me.

The smaller table that consisted of Wade, AJ, Mickey, Eli, and Wes.

“How bad was the hangover after your party, Bux?” Mick asked, his mouth full of food. “You were pretty sloshed when we left.”

“Shut up, I’m working,” I said, pasting a smile onto my face as I kept taking photos.

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