Page 41 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"I'm not cold," she says immediately.

"Your goosebumps say otherwise." I place the hoodie over her shoulders anyway. It drowns her, making her look smaller, more vulnerable.

"Now you'll be cold," she protests, though she doesn't take it off.

"I run hot." I tap the side of my head. "Hockey player, remember? Built-in furnace."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Right. Because hockey players aren't human—they're some superior species."

"Now you're getting it."

I open the passenger door for her, watching as she slides in and pulls the hoodie tighter around herself. The sight of her in my clothes does something to me. I try to ignore as I walk around to the driver's side.

The inside of my car isn't the cleanest—there are empty protein shake bottles in the cup holders and a gym bag in the back—but it's not the disaster it could be. Still, I find myself wishing I'd tidied up, like I knew she'd be here.

"Sorry about the mess," I say as I start the engine.

"It's fine." She glances around. "It's actually cleaner than I expected."

"What, you thought I'd be living in squalor?"

"Kind of, yeah." She shrugs. "Isn't that the hockey player stereotype? Smelly gear and energy drink cans everywhere?"

I laugh. "That's just the locker room. My apartment's actually pretty clean."

"Hmm." She sounds skeptical. There's a hint of teasing in her voice that makes me glance over. She's looking out the window, but I catch the ghost of a smile on her lips.

I pull out of the parking lot, heading toward the strip of fast food places near campus. "So, ice cream. Any preference on where we go?"

"Somewhere with a drive-through," she says, then adds, "Like McDonald's."

"McDonald's?" I can't hide my surprise. "I figured you for more of a gourmet ice cream girl."

"Why, because I'm so uptight?" There's no heat in her question, just curiosity.

"No, because you seem…particular." I choose my words carefully. "Like you know what you want and don't settle."

She's quiet for a moment. "There's something nostalgic about McDonald's soft serve. My dad used to take me after my piano recitals, even when I completely butchered the piece."

This small glimpse into her past catches me off-guard. I wasn't expecting her to share something so personal, so unguarded.

"McDonald's it is," I say, making a left turn toward the golden arches in the distance.

The drive-through line is short—a benefit of going for ice cream at nine on a weeknight. I pull up to the speaker.

"Welcome to McDonald's, what can I get for you?" a bored voice crackles through the intercom.

"Two vanilla cones, please," I say, then glance at Hannah. "Unless you want something else?"

She shakes her head. "That's fine."

I pay at the window, and the teenage employee hands us our cones with a barely-concealed yawn. I pull into a parking space at the edge of the lot, away from the main entrance where we're less likely to be seen.

"Twenty questions," I say, breaking the silence as we sit with our ice cream. "But with a twist."

She licks her cone, and I momentarily lose my train of thought watching her tongue swipe across the soft serve.

"What's the twist?" she finally asks, noticing my stare.

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