Page 73 of Smooth Sailing
“Sweet dreams, Paloma,” he whispered, settling beside her without touching.
The space between them was a preview of what was coming. She lay rigid, each second of this night feeling precious and painful. Tomorrow they’d drive home, and the fantasy would begin to unravel.
So she stayed still, listening to his breathing deepen into sleep, clinging to these last moments before reality demanded its due.
Chapter Thirty-Three
November 25th, 6:00 p.m.
The traffic inched forward at a snail’s pace, cars stretching endlessly ahead on the highway. Paloma drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at the clock on the dashboard for the hundredth time. They’d been stuck on their last stretch of I-96 for over an hour, and her schedule was backing up like the endless line of brake lights ahead of her.
“Any movement up there?” Felix’s voice drifted from the back, slightly slurred with sleep.
She looked at him in the review mirror curled awkwardly across the backseat, his head pillowed on Abigail’s lap. Her fingers combed through his hair as she stared out the window, her breath fogging the glass.
Paloma sighed. “We’ve covered maybe ten feet in the last fifteen minutes.”
Beside her, Max shifted, the leather seat creaking. He reached over, his warm hand covering hers on the gear shift. “Hey, we have no major project to stress, so we’ve got time.” He grinned, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Which is good because at this rate, we might make it back by Christmas.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, and some tension left her shoulders when she met his gaze. She loved how he was so mellow, willing to go with the flow, yet not passive. It was a rare combination that made their work, play, and even unexpected traffic jams enjoyable.
“Christmas,” Felix groaned. “But I’m starving.”
“I told you we should have taken my family’s Cessna,” Abigail groused good-natured.
“I was thinking about the carbon footprint,” Felix replied.
“I’m not sure we’re saving much sitting in this traffic.”
“And I had to bring my truck back,” Max reasoned, patting the dashboard.
Paloma’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen on the car’s Bluetooth and saw her mother’s name flashing. “Uh-oh,” Felix sat up. “We’re going to be late for dinner. I’m glad you’re telling her.”
She quirked her brow at him in the rearview mirror, letting the phone continue to ring. Felix’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t,” he gasped.
She smirked and nodded.
“So mean,” he muttered.
Her cell stopped ringing, and Max said, “What—”
Felix’s phone began to sing, “Your Momma Don’t Dance.” He groaned and said, “I’m taking you down with me, Drunk Decision.” He answered, saying. “Hi, Mom.”
“Felix, darling!” Their mom said through the speaker call. “Are you all still coming for dinner tonight?”
“Nah, we decided to stop at Gino’s for a pizza.”
“That’s not even funny,” their mom scolded, but there was affection in her voice. When will you arrive? Is Paloma with you?”
“Yes, she is, and that’s why we’re late. She drives like a hundred-year-old granny.”
“Oh, good, so she’s with you. I wasn’t sure; she’s avoiding my calls again.”
“I don’t avoid your calls,” Paloma lied.
“Felix! Why didn’t you warn me that I’m on speaker?”
“I was about to tell you.” His grin said the opposite. Paloma rolled her eyes, unable to hold in a grin. Her brother loved to wind up the family.
