Page 129 of The Chance

The little speaker crackles its reply to our order, and I can’t help the lift at the corners of my mouth.

What can I say? Being in a coma puts a damper on a guy.

But now that I’ve been sprung free from the prison of germs, I’m feeling every bit of the feistiness that’s been stored for the last however many days I’ve been cooped up and out of commission.

It’s only made better by the tatted chauffer scowling at the road like it did him dirty.

“Wanna bet?” I ask as Jordan palms the wheel and gets us around the little curve in the lane.

“For?”

“Whether they recognize me.”

Jordan sighs. “I’d rather they didn’t. Can you change your face real quick?”

I mock a wounded gasp and touch a hand to my chest as we inch closer to the window. “Howdare. You don’t like my face, Tyro?”

He snickers when I tuck my arms tight across my pecs and throw him my best fake-angry face.

“You hate my face.”

His eyes roll as he leans to the side and fishes his wallet from his pocket around the seatbelt. “I don’t hate your face.”

I scoff. “You definitely said you hate my face.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So did.”

“Ilikeyour face. Now shut it.”

Jordan pulls up to the window, and my stomach is growling, and I snicker. “I knew it.”

“Wha?” He’s distracted by my comment when the window flings open and the employee on the other side barks a total at him. “I said I liked it. I’m the one that has to look at it every day.”

“Excuse me?”

Jordan’s head snaps to the side where the window sits wide open, with an employee wearing one of those old school aprons and a dirty look is staring at us.

“No, I was talking to my—Mac.” He throws a gesture my way as he attempts to juggle his card, the receipt and his wallet. “I was talking to him.”

The woman leans down and catches my gaze across the car. “YouhisMac?”

I beam. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing he likes your face, then, dear.”

That pink flush takes over Jordan’s cheeks and I laugh.

“I suppose so,” I mumble through a cheeky grin and plant a hand on his thick thigh when he white knuckles the steering wheel. “He’s still getting used to it.”

The woman hums, a sideways glance thrown in Jordan’s direction before she returns her smile on me. “He’s a lucky man, honey. Don’t let him forget it.”

“Never,” I say to Jordan’s frozen profile, tossing the woman a grin. “You got a pen? Marker?”

The woman snorts, throws barking orders over her shoulder into the store, then hands one through the window.

I reach across Jordan and accept it, diving into the glove box next for a leftover takeout napkin. I quickly scroll my signature on the paper and hand them both back to the woman. “I don’t wanna see that for sale online—” I squint at her name tag. “Birdie. Okay?”

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