Page 69 of Betting on You

We’d been driving for six-ish hours, and we’d created a ridiculous game that was going to get me killed. Every time we stopped, we raced to the bathrooms.Literally.Whoever could sprint to the bathroom, use the facilities, wash their hands, and be the first to get back and touch the car was the big winner.

That person didn’t have to pay for gas or snacks, and they also got to drive and control the radio.

Unfortunately for me, he’d won at each stop.

And last time my foot had gotten stuck in the dangling seat belt I’d yanked off the minute we’d stopped, leaving me with a hole in my leggings and a bloody knee as I’d chased Charlie into the gas station.

It was a little unfair because he had no qualms about yelling “Look out, look out” and basically running over people, whereas I couldn’t bring myself to keep up the sprint when faced with oncoming foot traffic.

This time was going to be it, though.This timeI would win.

“Okay—three gas stations up ahead. Which one do you want?”

“Don’t,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Don’t give me the pity choice. Just because I have yet to win doesn’t mean you need to feel sorry for me.”

“Oh, honey,” he cooed, coughing out a laugh as his eyes stayed on the road. “But Idofeel sorry for you. That’s a nasty strawberry on your knee.”

“That you poured hand sanitizer on!”

“To keep away infection,” he said, smiling, and I let it go. He’d been kind of sweet after the fall. I could tell he felt really bad. It was a little bit adorable.

“Eddy’s Hot Stop,” I said. “Go, asshole.”

“Atta girl,” he said around a laugh as he hit the blinker.

I don’t know why, but there was something about the way he said “Atta girl” that made me feel warmeverywhere.

I stared out the window as he turned into the lot and headed for a gas pump. The rule was that no one could start until the car was put in park.

“You look tense,” he said, slowly cruising toward the covered fuel pumps. “You all right there, buddy?”

“Don’t distract me,” I said, glancing over at him.

Which was a mistake, because he was grinning as if he’d never seen anything more amusing than me, poised and ready to jump from the car. “Wanna know why you’ll never win this game?” he asked.

“Oh, but I will,” I replied, biting the inside of my cheek so I didn’t smile back at him.

“It’s because you lack the killer instinct.”

“I do not,” I said, leaning forward as he started slowing.

“Yes, you do,” he said, and even without looking I couldhearthe smart-ass grin in his voice. “If you run into the bathroom and there’s one open stall and two of you ladies, are you going to push the other chick out of the way?”

Of course I wouldn’t.But I said, “If it means beating you, then yes.”

“Liar,” he drawled, and the way he said it brought my eyes back to his face again.

There was a challenge in his dark eyes as they met mine, in the wicked smile that turned up his mouth. If it were anyone else, looking at me like that, I would call it wildly flirtatious.

But this was Charlie.

This was just the thrill of competition.

Right?

He jammed the shifter into park, and our doors flew open. We each leaped from the car and full-out sprinted toward thegas station doors, and for once I was a hair ahead of him.

“I’m right at your heels, Glasses,” he said, trying to distract me.

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