Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
DARCY
Archer made it to the car so much faster than I expected.
The door opened, letting in a cold rush of air, and the man himself stood frozen while I cleared off his seat, a weary expression on his face.
It was just my purse, sweatshirt, water bottle, and hat, but you’d have sworn by the look on his face that it was fast food wrappers, used tissues, and wads of chewed gum.
When I finished and he still didn’t move to get in, I patted the seat and plastered a bright smile I most definitely did not feel onto my face.
I woke up this morning feeling tired, slightly nauseous again, and with a headache that food, caffeine, and Tylenol had yet to kick.
Oh, and to top it off, my boobs were killing me.
In short, the last thing I wanted to do was be trapped in the car with Archer and his grumpy self for the next six hours, but I was trying to play nice.
That, and I really didn’t want him to notice that I felt like crap.
Knowing I was pregnant, and talking with him about all the nitty gritty details that were involved with it were two different things.
He finally folded his massive frame into my car, making the space inside feel smaller than usual, his knees coming halfway up the glove-box even with the seat all the way back.
“Good morning,” I said, attempting to break the tension that followed him in.
Archer peered over at me briefly before his gaze dropped to the gear stick in my palm. “You drive stick?”
“Yes . . .” I dragged out the end of the word questioningly, wondering what his fixation with it was.
“Why?” He was staring at me, confusion etched into his features.
I smirked and waggled my eyebrows at him. “Because I really love playing with sticks.”
When his expression didn’t change, aside from a slight twitch of an eye that I wasn’t sure I’d actually seen, I shrugged. “I like it better; it’s more fun. Plus, it’s a built-in anti-theft mechanism.”
A grunt was all I got in response, and I took that as my queue to get moving. I shifted the car into reverse, and took a deep breath before backing out of his driveway.
Ten minutes into the drive, and I could tell that it was going to be a long trip.
When I’d deduced that he wasn’t going to be much of a conversationalist, I’d opted for turning the music up.
That lasted for all of three minutes before he asked me to turn it down again.
Either he wasn’t a morning person, or he didn’t like Eminem, and I refused to believe the latter.
He might’ve been a jerk, but even jerks had taste.
So, with my music playing at a volume meant for smooth jazz, I drove us onto the highway and spent the next two hours quietly mouthing along to songs, and stealing sidelong glances at the broody man to my right.
“Can we get off the next exit?” His voice cut through my thoughts, startling me after such a long period of silence.
“Uh, yeah, sure.” I looked down at the gas gauge on my dashboard. I still had well over half a tank, but if we were stopping now, I might as well top her off so we could make the rest of the drive without stopping. “Gas station okay?”
“A gas station is fine.” He stared out the passenger window, and showed no signs of looking back toward me. At this rate, I wondered if he’d get so much as thirty words out to me before we made it to my parents. By my count, we were currently at a whopping sixteen.
Pulling off the next exit, I drove us three minutes down the road to the nearest gas station, where Archer immediately jumped out of the car like it was on fire, and headed toward the convenience store inside.
“Okay then,” I muttered to myself before exiting the vehicle, and pumping the gas. When I finished, Archer still hadn’t returned, so I took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. If I didn’t go now, I’d probably have to in five minutes, and I didn’t want to make us stop again.
The convenience store looked like every other gas station which made finding the bathrooms exceptionally easy. On my beeline to the back left corner, I searched for Archer, but he must’ve decided to hit the restroom himself.
I took an extra second on my way out to adjust my hair that had been piled into a top-knot at the crown of my head, and then headed back to the car. Archer leaned against it, a gigantic bag clutched in one hand.
“What’d you do? Rob the place?” I asked, walking around to the driver’s side.
He scowled at me over the top. “No.”
Make that seventeen words.
Inside, I buckled, eyeing his bag curiously as he began pulling things out.
“That is the strangest assortment of road-trip snacks I’ve ever seen.”
Trail mix, dried apricots, a pre-packaged hummus platter, a blueberry muffin, and a single-serving box of Raisin Bran were now laid out across the dash, not a Dorito or Twizzler in sight.
I mean, Archer was in excellent shape—not an ounce of unwanted body fat in sight—but he never struck me as a health nut.
Not to the degree where a squirrel would approve of his road-trip snacks.
Not to mention, even the healthiest of people ate crap every now and then. I should know.
I couldn’t tell from the tilt of his head, but I could’ve sworn color had risen to his cheeks when he spoke next. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
He had picked snacks out for me? That was . . . kind of sweet, for Archer anyway, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
Say thank you, you idiot.
“Thanks,” I blurted, and then cleared my throat, reaching for the trail mix. At least it had M&Ms in it. “Thank you.”
He nodded, pulled out two bottles of water, then buckled his seatbelt without saying another word.
Shifting into gear, I drove us out of the gas station, and back toward the highway. The silence between us had originally been annoying, but now I welcomed it because it let me stew over what the hell him buying snacks he thought I’d like meant, if it meant anything.
Twenty minutes later, however, when my line of thinking had spiraled to if I wanted him buying me snacks to mean something, I desperately wished he’d argue with me.
Anything to get me out of the “Archer might not be that bad of a guy” hole I’d let myself go down.
My brain was already having a hard enough time trying to decipher which version of him I’d met was the real one, and him being a jerk would be much easier for both of us.
***
I got the reminder I needed not long after, when he once again requested to stop.
“It’s only been two hours! We’ve got two left.”
He shrugged. “So? Might as well stop and get more gas, and stretch our legs before the last bit.”
Annoyance simmered inside me. “We don’t need gas. We still have three-quarters of a tank from the last time we stopped.”
“Well maybe I have to pee.”
I hazard a glance in his direction. “Do you have to pee?”
“Sure.”
I groaned. “No, you don’t! Why the hell do we need to stop? What? Are you scared of cars or something? Is that why you’re so damn quiet?”
At least I was getting the arguing I’d been wishing for, but now all I wanted was whatever would let us power through the last two hours of this drive.
I wanted to get the hell out of this car.
I was tired, stiff, and in desperate need of an actual meal.
Plus, I desperately needed to put some space between the two of us before I reached over the center console and strangled him.
More annoyingly, it’s as if the soon-to-be murder victim could read my mind. “I’m fine. I thought we could use some real food, and to get out of the cramped car for a minute.”
“Fine,” I bit out, throwing my blinker on and downshifting a little aggressively, as I got off the next exit.
This man was hell-bent on turning this road trip into a whole-day affair, and part of me wanted to tell him to shut up and power through, but the other part of me actually did want some food and to get some fresh air.
I pulled into a Wendy’s because I’d be damned if I let him decide when and where we stopped.
This time, he didn’t jump out of the car like I expected him to.
In fact, he waited for me by the front of my Jetta, then walked almost next to me, but slightly behind.
I didn’t know what happened to him in the last four hours, but I wasn’t sure I liked it, and it got worse when he insisted on paying when we ordered.
While I was waiting at the table I snagged for us, I Googled potential causes for Archer’s mood swings, but came up empty-handed. Not that I really expected the internet to tell me exactly what his problem was, but it was worth a shot.
“You good?” he asked around a mouthful of burger when he caught me still staring a few minutes later.
I pointed a fry in his direction before dunking it into my frosty. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“Figure me out?”
“Yes. One minute, you’re a miserable ass, the next you’re buying me snacks and lunch. I’m trying to figure out which one is real.” I ate another fry.
“The miserable ass.” His expression didn’t change, and when he took another bite, it was clear he had no plans on elaborating on his statement.
I was wholly inclined to believe him, but something about simply slapping that label onto him didn’t feel quite right. “I don’t know if I believe that. I mean, you’re definitely a grump, but I think there’s more to it.”
His eyes locked on mine, and even without knowing his profession, I’d guess he was a firefighter, because the intensity of his stare threatened to burn me alive. “There’s always more, Darcy. Doesn’t really change anything, though, does it?”
I don’t know what I had expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.
We continued to eat quietly, the conversation effectively extinguished, which is how I thought it would remain until we got to my parents’, but once we were back in the car he surprised me by speaking.