Page 34 of I Almost Do

He is anything but just a driver. None of them have ever been. But Dean? He’s a cut even above the usual bodyguard/driver. I don’t even know where Dad found him.

He’s probably only in his early thirties, but Dean is obviously a seasoned veteran. He’s built like a linebacker, carries a concealed firearm under his black suit jacket, and his head is on a constant swivel, looking for nonexistent threats to our well-being.

Bronwyn took one look at stoic Dean, with his stoic face and his stoic muscles, and decided she was in love.

She inches her hand back toward the button.

“Bronwyn,” I warn. “Leave Dean the fuck alone. Not everyone has to like you.”

Her outraged expression morphs into first shock, then delight.

“Why is that funny?” I grouch.

“It’s not funny. It’s awesome. You never tell anyone off. You don’t get mad. Ever. Then you went and drank at your wedding—way more than I would recommend, I might add—and you got mad at James. And now you just sassed me. Right to my face. It’s wonderful,” she says.

“It’s not wonderful. It’s awful.”

“No.” She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “It’s not. It’s normal. You know I loved your dad—”

“Don’t,” I say.

“I loved him, but he controlled you way too much. It was a kind of emotional blackmail, whether he meant it to be or not. You thought if you let yourself feel bad things, a meteor was going to fall out of the sky.”

“That wasn’t my father’s fault. And the meteor already fell, so what does it matter now?”

“Okay, that’s not quite the life lesson I was going for, but let’s roll with it.”

She looks back up toward the front of the car wistfully. Then her hand creeps back toward the button. It’s obviously an act designed to get a reaction out of me, as evidenced by her slow and flagrant progress.

“Grow up,” Franki says to Bronwyn. “You act like a middle schooler with a crush around Clarissa’s driver.”

Bronwyn smirks, and then her eyes widen. “That’s it. Clarissa, there’s your compromise with James. Tell him you’ve been unfairly denied the boyfriend experience.”

An incredulous laugh punches out of me. “What?”

She shrugs. “If you two just avoid each other or do the platonic friend thing, how are you supposed to transition later into something else? We all know it’s not going to take until you’re twenty-five, but for this first little while? You should ask him to be your middle school boyfriend. There’s no pressure for sex, then. Just hand-holding. A little light French kissing. A promise that you’re going steady and won’t hold anyone else’s hand. Admit it, it’s brilliant.”

I roll my eyes. “Just as a reminder, I didn’t do any of that in middle school. Sasha would have broken the lips of any boy trying to lay one on me.”

Bronwyn snorts in agreement. “Yeah, she would have. That’s my point. You never had any of that. There has to be an easing into it, you know? You can’t soar in the clouds until you’ve learned to ride a tricycle, little sparrow.”

I laugh, then give her my snootiest expression. “Birds don’t ride bikes. Your point is invalid.”

“No, you listen to your elders, missy.”

“You’re four months older than I am,” I say.

She nods slowly and repetitively. “And I’ve got a good twenty years on you in life experience.”

“Oh, of course, Wise Woman of Brooklyn Heights. Share with me your infinite knowledge of arranged marriages.”

“I will. Moving out and dating him will take some of the pressure off. Living with him when your relationship is so squishy has to suck.”

“Squishy?” Franki asks.

“Yes, squishy. They're married. And he cares about her, but she’s still way more into him as far as I can see.”

Oof.

---