SCARLETT
Ican’t believe I got into the wrong effin' car…
Tonight is the cherry on top of a years-long shitty sundae—the final garnish adorning a series of poor life decisions I just can’t melt away.
“Since I’m not a real Uber driver, I need you to come sit in the front seat with me,” Mr. Generous says out of nowhere.
“No, that’s okay.” I shake my head. “I’m fine riding down here.”
The car suddenly jolts to a stop, and my body flies to the other side of the floor.
“Front seat,” he demands. “Now.”
“Ugh.” I sit up. “Fine.”
I tuck my purse under my arm and crawl over his center console, settling into the passenger seat.
“Happy now, sir?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Buckle your seatbelt.”
My breath catches as he turns and narrows his eyes at me, as I finally take in a view of his face.
My lips part before I can stop them, and my heart stumbles over its own reckless tempo.
This man's face is the definition of a wet fantasy. A sculptor's ultimate dream.
With his short, jet-black hair that's perfectly coiffed, his chiseled jawline that’s begging me to touch it, and his deep emerald eyes that are probably seeing right through me, he’s making every nerve in my body run wild without even trying.
If I'd caught a longer glimpse of this man before this moment, I would've known he was someone whose world could never possibly collide with mine. That fate could never be so cruel and kind at the same time.
“Do I need to give you instructions on how to buckle your seatbelt?” He interrupts my thoughts. “I can, if you need them.”
I click the buckle.
“Thank you.” He drives forward. “Now, what’s your address?”
“I need your first and last name before I give you that,” I say to him. “We need to establish a level of trust in this relationship.”
“I’m only going to know you for thirty more minutes of my life—at most.” He runs through a yellow light. “We don’t have a relationship…”
“I’ll go first since you clearly have no idea how to make small talk.” I clear my throat. “My name is Olive, like the vegetable.”
“Olives are considered a fruit.”
“They’re also vegetables.” I refuse to believe he’s this difficult. “That’s why they’re always next to the pickles in the grocery store.”
“Pickles are also, technically, fruits.” His lips curve into a slow smile. “They grow from flowers and have seeds…just like olives.”
“Are you normally this antagonistic to everyone you meet?” I look at him. “Or did I burn you somehow?”
“You broke into my car and demanded that I drive you to lower Manhattan—which is far away from where I was originally heading.” He looks right back at me. “Surely you don’t think I should be ecstatic about that.”
He has a point. “You could at least be cordial with me for this ride, though. I gave you my real name.”
“The lanyard you took off says your name is Scarlett.” He serves me a smirk under a red light, and my cheeks heat.
“My name is Jameson,” he offers. “Feel free to give me your address.”
“242 West 53rd St.”
“Thank you.” He taps his digital dashboard, typing in the letters, while I lean forward and fiddle with the buttons on the console.
I stab one that’s lit up in bright blue, then another that’s lit up in red.
“What the hell are you doing?” He grabs my wrist, and his touch sets every nerve in my body on fire.
“I was, uh—” My breath hitches as his hand lingers against my skin, as he squeezes my wrist a bit tighter. “I was just trying to turn on the heated seats. My legs are cold.”
He glances down at my exposed thighs—sending another heated signal to my nerves—but then he lets go of my hand.
“It’s the red button on the far right,” he says.
“Thank you.” I press it, and within seconds, long wisps of air are blowing against my skin, and for a moment I wonder what this man’s mouth would feel like against my skin instead.
We’re still miles away from lower Manhattan, so I start to think of something else to say to him, but nothing comes to mind.
I figure if he can make an argument out of olives and pickles, he can probably make an argument out of anything.
Bzzzz! Bzzzz! Bzzzz!
My phone suddenly vibrates in my purse, probably reminding me to pay a past-due bill. Pulling it out, I glance at the screen and my stomach drops.
Dad.
I silence it, waiting for it to go to voicemail.
It doesn’t.
Bzzzz! Bzzzzz! Bzzzz!
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
“Um…” I look over at Jameson. “Would you mind pulling over and stepping out to let me take this call privately?”
He shoots me a blank stare.
“Is that a yes or a no?” I ask. “I can’t really read your expression under this lighting.”
“I hope the address you gave me belongs to a psych ward.” He rolls his eyes. “I think you might need some serious mental help if you honestly think I would leave you alone in my car.”
I don’t have time to respond to that, and I can’t afford to avoid my father’s calls for the third day in a row.
Letting out a breath, I count to three before answering.
“Hey, Dad!” I feign a smile. “How are you tonight?”
“I’m pissed as fuck.” His voice is terse. “My only daughter hasn’t returned any of my goddamn calls this week, and she knows I don’t appreciate silence.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry, Dad.” I swallow. “I’ve been really busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
“Handling a lot of open projects and research.”
“I see.” He’s clenching his jaw and turning red; I can tell. “Why haven’t I received a weekly email update about your progress in Harvard’s business program this month? You haven’t mentioned anything about those classes in a while.”
“Well, because it’s been pretty overwhelming and hard…” I pause. “One of my partners and I are actually heading back to Massachusetts right now. We had to do a lot of field research in New York City this week.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jameson turning his head toward me.
“Anything about this ‘research’ you care to share with me?” my dad asks.
“Uh, not at the moment,” I say. “But I’ve been hustling like you wouldn’t believe.”
He says nothing for several seconds, and I can practically picture him tapping his fingers against his oak desk and staring me down like I’m sitting right in front of him.
He’s seconds away from tossing back a shot of whiskey and putting me in my place.
“No one in this family goes more than a day without returning my calls, young lady,” he finally says. “You know what that does to me, so don’t ever let it happen again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll call you Saturday morning,” he says. “Be ready to tell me more about where all this money I’m spending on your Ivy League education is going…”
“Can’t wait,” I say. “Goodnight. Love you.”
He ends the call without saying it back, and the hairs on the back of my neck start standing up one by one.
My father can strike fear into the hearts of the toughest men, and he’s always been able to do it to me without even trying.
I am so screwed.
Shaking away the thought of what my dad is thinking about me, I glance ahead and realize we’re only two blocks away from the address I gave to Jameson.
“Massachusetts?” There’s a smile in Jameson’s voice. “What a blatant and obvious lie.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Next time, you should say the exact city or location,” he says. “Lies are more believable when you give specific details.”
“They’re harder to keep up with, too.”
“Only if you tell too many.” He pulls over as his screen flashes a ‘You’ve arrived’ notification. “Five lies or fewer at a time is best.”
I’m already past fifty. “Good to know.”
He looks at the building, then at me.
“A lot of executive bankers stay in this building,” he says. “What do you do for a living?”
“Oh?” I tilt my head to the side. “Now you want to be cordial?”
“It’s just one question.”
“I work in senior sales and marketing.” I give him the same lie I give everyone else. “I create campaigns to make people believe in whatever products companies are selling.”
“Hmmm.” He looks as if he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said, and I don’t blame him.
“I’ll let you out now,” he says.
He doesn’t move an inch, though.
He’s staring at me, his expression unreadable, and as the seconds pass between us, I can’t help but slowly inhale the scent of his cologne.
It’s amber and woodsy with a faint hint of vanilla, and I can’t help but slowly inhale a bit more of it.
Without saying a word, Jameson finally steps out of the car and strolls to my side.
Opening my door, he reaches for my hand, and his second touch sends an even stronger jolt of heat through my body than the first one.
For a moment, from the look in his eyes, I wonder if he can feel it, too. If he’s ever felt anything like this before with someone he’s just met.
“Thank you for the ride, Jameson,” I manage. “I appreciate it.”
“You should.” He glances at the building, then back at me. “When do you plan to start walking to the door?”
Welp. Maybe it’s just me…
I turn away and head inside the lobby, moving behind the heavy purple drapes that cover the windows. I peek through the gap, waiting until Jameson’s car is long gone.
I count down from fifty—just in case he circles the block—and then I exit the building and walk down three more blocks to where I actually live.
Hudson University’s art campus welcomes me back with open arms, and when I make it back to my dorm room, fresh letters are stuffed under my door.
Multiple ‘Return to Sender’ notices from Harvard’s Admissions Department, a stash of past-due stage time receipts, and my favorite—angry letters from multiple loan companies I’ve burned.
“Screwed” is no longer the proper term to define my situation.
I’m fucked…