Page 38 of Clean Out of Luck

“You know, I think maybe I could do that. And I think you’re very sweet for being so understanding.” I walk toward him and set my purse on the counter next to him. His eyes widen as I lean up on my tiptoes and reach for him.

“I would ask if this is the part where you’re going to stuff me in your basement, but I’m already here,” he says.

I just laugh as I wrap my arms around his neck. Attempting to hug someone significantly taller than you can be a little awkward sometimes.

He unfolds his arms and hugs me back.

“What’s this for?” he asks.

I give him one more good squeeze and then let go. “It’s because you let me be me, and I like that.”

“Well, you’d better knock that off or I’m going to cry. And I know you’re a sympathetic crier,” he teases quietly.

I grin at that. It’s true. I can’t stand to see other people cry. They could be crying about their pet goldfish I’ve never met, but when I see other people being sad, it’s like something overcomes me and I have to be sad with them in solidarity. It’s a problem sometimes when working in a courtroom.

The clock on the wall catches my eye. “Well, now you made me late for my date.” I go back from being grateful to grumpy at him.

He pulls his keys out of his pocket. “Good thing I have these!”

I frown at that. “You know I don’t like driving in cars.” Ever since the wreck, I’ve had a hard time riding in cars. Everything seems to move too fast, and I flinch anytime I see something coming out of the corner of my eye. I’ve been working on it with a therapist, and it’s getting progressively better, but it’s still not easy.

“Good thing I’ll be the one driving, then. Come on, I’ll drop you off. It’ll be fine.”

I glance at the time, then back at Wade. He’s right. It will be fine. It has to be.

I follow him out of the building and to the street where he’s parked. He drives a black 4Runner that looks like it could handle a snowy mountain with ease. He even holds the door for me as I climb in.

“You look nice in that sundress,” he tells me. Then he closes the door, and I don’t have a chance to thank him for the compliment.

He walks around to the driver’s seat, and I do my best not to bunch up the sundress I’m wearing and put a big wrinkle in it. He turns on the car and immediately puts on some music. He messes around with the settings until he finds something upbeat, loud, and easy to sing along with.

He reaches over and pats my leg. I know he just means it to be reassuring, something to make me feel safe, but all I can focus on is the contact of his calloused hand on my bare leg.

Usually, when I get in a car, I feel frozen. I remember every single moment of the wreck. It’s why I prefer to bike everywhere. Every time I climb into a car, I struggle not to relive the moment of the crash. I’ve only managed to drive a couple of times since then, and when a car is necessary, I prefer to let my brother or mom drive me somewhere.

But tonight, Wade is distracting me more than he’ll ever know. He’s trying to do it with music, but that little touch is enough to take my mind off anything that could happen in this vehicle. And I cannot be thinking like that.

He pulls into the street, and I rest my hand on the spot where he touched my leg. It’s almost like I can still feel his hand there.

Wade glances over and notices me clutching my leg. I immediately let go and smile at him.

He gives me a soft smile back. “It’s going to be okay, Scooter.”

Then he reaches across and grasps my hand in his. And he just holds it.

My cheeks feel warm all of a sudden, and I wonder if it’s because I’m stressed or because I’m holding Wade’s hand.

While he drives me to my date, he sings loudly and off-key enough to catch my attention. He’s trying to do all the thingsto keep me focused on something other than driving because he is well acquainted with my fear of cars.

But what he doesn’t know is that him holding my hand is the most powerful thing he could’ve ever done. Because I never knew my hand could fit in Wade’s so perfectly.

And why is it sending an electric shock up my arm?

Why does it feel so right to be holding his hand when I’m about to go on a date with another man?

Wade drops me off in front of Aria, the Italian bistro. I glance down at my phone and look at the picture I have of my date so that when I walk inside the restaurant, I’ll recognize him.

I make my way past the other nice tables full of customers and sit down across from Peyton Harrington.

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