Page 30 of Keeper
With a laugh, I put my hand on his arm. “Sorry. It’s a very nice car, Tanner. It’s very sporty.”
“Yeah.” He gave a small nod. “Yeah, it is.”
Tanner put his car in gear and we eased out of the parking lot. Even as we slowly prowled down the street, his car sounded like it was chomping at the bit to be let loose. Thankfully, Tanner wasn’t seduced by his car’s power—at least not withmein the car—and he drove us safely.
“Anyway, there’s Reunion Tower,” he said, pointing at the golf ball tower among the skyline. “You said she lives in a high-rise around here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll just drive up and down the area, then. Stop me if it starts to look familiar.”
Tanner pointed out the buildings and gave me a mini-tour of the area as we drove up and down the city blocks.God,it was so sweet of him to do this. He didn’t have to drive me, some girl from out of town, all over the city in search of a building that I barely remembered. Yeah, part of me knew that he was probably doing it to score points with me—but so what? Wasn’t that a good thing itself, if he felt like he had to work for me?
I started to think, maybe, justmaybeif I lived in Dallas, I’d give this guy a shot. But the second that thought crossed my mind, though, I nipped it in the bud.
Gettin’ a little ahead of ourselves there, aren’t we?
We made small talk as we drove, slowly learning bits and pieces about each other.
“So what kind of artist are you?” he asked, quickly adding, “And I know you’re really good, by the way.”
I snickered. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’ve clearly got one hell of an imagination, MissSexy Robot Shoe.”
He made me laugh.
“I do a bit of everything,” I said. “But I’m majoring in photography.”
“Cool. My sister’s an artist, too.”
“Yeah? What kind of art does she do?”
“She paints and does sculptures.”
“Does she live in Dallas, too?”
“No. She’s still in Toronto with the rest of my family.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize you were Canadian.”
“Tronnaboy, born and raised, eh,” he said, putting on a thick Toronto accent. “Grew up playing hockey my whole life.” He drummed his fingers on his steering wheel.
“Don’t all Canadian boys grow up playing hockey?” I asked.
“Yeah, but …” he trailed off, seemingly thinking better of whatever he wanted to say.
“But what?”
He shook his head. “Nevermind.”
I wondered if he’d know anything about the hockey player we’re supposed to photograph on Sunday? Too bad Marta never told me that guy’s name—I only knew him as “Douchebag,” the professional hockey player with a very big dick.Somehow, I doubted those details would be enough identifying information for Tanner to figure out who I meant, so I didn’t mention it.
We drove on and on, up and down the streets, looking in vain. The more we searched, the less certain I was I’d even be able to recognize Marta’s building if we even drove past it in the first place. It was getting later and later and the two of us had to start hiding our yawns as exhaustion set in. I started to feel bad for wasting Tanner’s time.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s late. You must be so tired. And you’ve got work tomorrow …”
“I’ll keep looking until you tell me to quit, Ainsley.”
