Page 55 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

seb

“Hey, Soph.” I jog to catch up with her when we get off the plane. “Are you going back to the stadium? I need a ride.”

“What?” She holds her hands over her head as the rain starts coming down harder. “Where’s your car?”

“Back at the stadium. I rode over here with Joe.” I grab her bag and push her toward her car. “C’mon, we’re getting wet.”

She hesitates, but then starts walking. “Why aren’t you riding back there with Joe?”

“Uh, I’m kind of pissed at him right now.” She clicks her car open. I open the passenger’s side door and reach for her keys. “Get in. I’ll drive.”

“What? No,” she says, pulling her keys away from me. “It’s my car. I’ll drive.”

“I thought you said you were scared of hurricanes.”

“It’s just rain, Seb.” She wipes some raindrops from her forehead. “I’m not scared of rain.”

“Yeah and we’re getting soaked by that rain right now. Get in.” I grab the keys out of her hand, push her into the car, and close the door.

After I put our luggage in the back, I crawl into the driver’s seat and move the seat as far back as it will go. She’s staring at me when I look over.

“Seb, do you want to talk about your control issues?” She’s nodding her head slowly like she’s a therapist.

“What?” I say, laughing. “I don’t have control issues.

“I’m a really good driver,” she says. “I do it all the time.”

“I’m sure you are. This is way more about me than you. I hate being the passenger.”

“Control issues.”

“Probably.” I look over at her and smile. “Is our time up for this session, Dr. Banks?”

“Yes,” she laughs. “We can dig into this more in our next session. Besides, I kind of like being the passenger—and I rarely am—so if you can figure out how to make your legs fit in that side of the car, I’m fine with you driving.”

“Thank you.” I start the car up. It sputters a little bit before it engages. “How old is this thing?”

She gasps and throws her hand to her chest. “What? Did you just call Jackson a thing?”

“And Jackson is who?” I say, rolling my eyes. “Your car?”

“My Jeep. Jackson Jeep. Show him some respect.” She runs her hand lovingly over the dashboard. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s the perfect name for him. Why? What’s your car named?”

“My car doesn’t have a name.”

She breathes in sharply like I told her something shocking. “We should give it one right now before it has to suffer through any more of an identity crisis—”

I shake my head. “It’s not getting a name because it’s a car.”

“It’s a Range Rover, right?” She taps her fingers on her lips and squints like she’s trying to solve a difficult math equation. “Ronald? Ronald Range Rover?”

“No—”

“Ricky? Randall? Randy?”

I’m staring at her, trying to keep a straight face, but I’m starting to break. She’s so damn adorable when she’s talking nonsense.

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