Four – Eliza
FOUR
ELIZA
W hy do the sexiest men always have to be douchebags?
Then again, calling Mr. Manhattan “sexy” doesn’t do him justice.
With his dark jeans and black button-down—unbuttoned just enough to piss me off—he somehow looks even better now than he did when he first ruined my final day in New York.
I can feel him watching me as I speed down the highway, but I keep my eyes forward.
The last time my brother made me pick up one of his friends, it was a guy who claimed he wanted to help run the farm.
He lasted two days.
Turned out the only thing he knew how to do was water plants—and even that took coaching.
“Is this normally how you treat your guests?” Mr. Manhattan asks, his voice smooth.
“You’re my brother’s guest.”
“My name is Harrison.”
“That’s nice.” I turn up the radio.
He lets out a low laugh.
I press harder on the gas. The quicker we’re out of this car, the better.
And of course—because karma has a twisted sense of humor—blue and white lights flash in my rearview mirror.
Sirens follow.
“If you’d been nicer to me,” Harrison says, “I would’ve warned you that you were doing thirty over the speed limit.”
“Thank you so much for sharing that now.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I pull over and lean across him to grab my license and registration from the glove box.
The smell of his cologne nearly makes me forget why we’re being pulled over, but I snap out of it and roll down my window.
“Good evening, Miss,” the officer says, leaning in.
“Evening.” I hand him the paperwork.
“Wait a minute…” He shines a flashlight directly in my face. “It’s Eliza again, Sheriff!”
“I’m coming,” the sheriff calls from the second patrol car. He walks up to my window with a groan. “Eliza, how many times do we have to tell you the speed limit signs aren’t suggestions?”
“My speedometer’s broken,” I lie.
“You say that every time.” He sighs. “Just call her brother. That’ll hurt more than any ticket.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer nods. He shines a light over at Harrison. “Speaking of your brother… does he know about your boyfriend here?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Who is he, then?”
“Yeah,” the sheriff adds. “Should I warn him that dating you comes with a life insurance requirement?”
Oh my God...
The sheriff doesn’t wait for an answer. He marches over to the passenger side.
Harrison rolls down the window casually, like he’s used to this kind of drama.
“Who the hell are you?” the sheriff asks.
“Harrison Jones. Or the Harrison Jones—from The Dating Experience, if you were into podcasts a few years back before I sold it.”
“That was your podcast?”
“Very much so.”
The second he says it, both officers lose their minds.
Suddenly, I’m invisible.
They’re tripping over each other for autographs, selfies, and new podcast recommendations.
I manage to escape without a ticket—or a lecture from Jackson.
But from the way Harrison looks at me as we pull back onto the road, I can tell he thinks he’s owed a thank you.
I hand him the aux cord instead.