Chapter 13 PLAY NICE
Chapter thirteen
PLAY NICE
“Gabriel Sanchez Estrada,” I say, cursing my brother-in-law under my breath.
“What was that?” Cameron asks, as he strides over and puts my mental image of what he looks like to shame with his dark skin and chiseled bone structure.
“Nothing.”
He takes my bag as if it weighs five pounds instead of fifty, showing off every curve of his biceps through his fitted shirt.
“I’m Cameron,” he says, holding out his free hand.
Now that we are standing next to each other, I have to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.
He is not quite as tall as John, the guy that I just watched fold himself up like a pretzel to get into Donny’s Prius, but he is well over six feet tall.
When our eyes lock, my stomach does that weird jolt again, and I grimace at my weakness for being so affected by a good-looking man.
To be fair, he is probably the most stunning combination of tall, dark, and handsome that I’ve ever seen, and he smells incredible. Like amber and maybe a hint of wood.
His smile widens as I shake my head to clear the thoughts that my brain is struggling to keep in check, revealing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth.
It’s almost annoying, really, how some people hit the genetic jackpot and get so many otherworldly qualities while the rest of us are average at best.
“Drew?” he prompts, interrupting my thoughts, then glances down at his outstretched hand.
I blush bright crimson as I reach out to take it, and give his hand a firm, professional pump like I am in a job interview.
“Sorry I didn’t wave you down before,” he says.
“You caught my eye the second you came out, but you walked by with such purpose that I figured I must have been wrong.”
I frown at his comment. I liked the flirty banter much better before I knew he was a hunk-for-hire driver.
When Gabe first posed the idea of hiring a hunky guy driving service to pick me up from the airport last week, I shut it down immediately but agreed to review a few of the bios with him, just for fun.
Most of the drivers’ bios stated that they were working to pay off student debt or help sick family members.
Whether they were telling the truth or just trying to garner business was unclear.
Regardless, Cameron doesn’t deserve for me to be rude to him for having a perfectly legitimate side hustle. Gabe is probably giggling about this as we speak, and super smug about the fact that he got his way in the end. I am going to give him a piece of my mind as soon as this drive is over.
“Well, it was hard to see you through your crowd of fans,” I say, gesturing in the direction of a new group of people who have slowed down to appreciate him and his car. “But I guess getting lots of attention is what you’re after anyway, so good for you.”
My tone is sharper than intended, and Cameron’s eyebrows come together just enough to give me a twinge of guilt.
The feeling intensifies when he casts his gaze to the ground and walks to the front of the car to put my bag in the “frunk” without another word.
I blink in astonishment that I may have just crushed this paid actor’s ego.
He is probably used to clients fawning over him, which, I guess, I technically did, at first.
I decide to play nice for the rest of the ride and slip into the passenger seat so that Cameron doesn’t need to keep up the charade by opening the door for me.
I move his keys out of the way from where he dropped them on the passenger seat and note that they are attached to a red-and-blue Howard University lanyard, confirming that he is one of the men from the website who are doing this job to pay off student loans.
I relax a bit as I settle into the familiar interior, although this model is even nicer than Scott’s was.
The smell of leather mixed with Cameron’s scent is intoxicating, and I find myself inhaling greedily for the last few seconds before he rejoins me.
May as well get my money’s worth. Or, Gabe’s money’s worth, technically.
“You still up for coffee?” Cameron asks as he slides into the driver’s seat a few moments later. His voice is still friendly, but all trace of our prior banter is gone. A fact that I hate to admit feels quite disappointing.
“Yur,” I say, which I think is a mix of yeah and sure, and makes me want to jump out of the car to try and chase down Donnie to get me to the retreat instead. “I mean, yes.” I clarify, and then press my lips together with a plan to never, ever speak again.
The engine roars to life, and every person in the vicinity turns to look our direction. Thankfully, the windows are tinted so that no one can see my face, which is likely the color of a cherry tomato. He pulls away from the curb with careful precision, and we join the traffic to leave the airport.
My phone buzzes harshly in my hand as we pull out onto the rain-slicked road, and Gabe’s and my picture comes up on the screen again. I send it to voicemail and silence my phone, throwing it into my purse on the ground. I will deal with him later.
I am not sure what to do with myself as Cameron navigates the various street changes to exit the airport property, but once we get on the road, I become preoccupied with the emerald-green tree line that stretches up on either side of the road at every turn.
I am used to the desert, where you can see for miles and miles in any direction.
While Charlotte is beautiful, the limited view makes me feel a bit claustrophobic.
The fact that I am inches from a devastatingly gorgeous stranger in a small sports car may also be a contributing factor.
We drive in silence for what feels like forever without making any discernible progress, since my perspective is limited by the trees, but a glance at the speedometer tells me why.
Cameron is driving the exact speed limit, not a mile over.
He also has both hands on the wheel unless he is shifting gears, and keeps his eyes straight forward, making me wonder if Gabe gave him a warning about my curse, or just instructed him to drive as carefully as possible to make me comfortable.
My anger at Gabe softens a bit when I imagine the conversation they must have had on my behalf, and I decide to show some mercy and send him a text to say that I am safely on my way.
A pang of guilt hits me when I see that Gabe has called and texted multiple times to make sure I am safe, but once I update him, I put my phone back away in my purse, because I still need time to fully forgive him for doing this to me.
“Is the temperature in here comfortable for you?” Cameron asks, filling the silence.
“I am a little warm, actually. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“I normally run cold,” I say, reaching forward to adjust the climate so that he can keep his eyes on the road. “I’m pretty sure it’s because of the alcohol and pill combination, though.”
“Oh?” he asks, giving me a sideways glance.
“Dramamine pills,” I clarify. His response makes me wonder if I was wrong, and that maybe Gabe didn’t give him all the details after all. My cheeks are likely purple at this point, between the heat and continual embarrassment. “I didn’t know what they were, so I took four on accident.”
He whistles low. “Four Dramamine pills and some alcohol?”
“All within one hour of taking off,” I admit.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “For a person your size, I am shocked you are even coherent.”
“Eh.” I shrug, loosening up a little. “I am definitely not all with it right now, so I’m sorry if I am being a little weird.”
He considers my words, and his strong jaw flexes as if he is physically holding back from commenting. I avert my gaze back out the window at the endless wall of trees, wishing I could go hide in them right now.
“So, how did you learn about the reading retreat?” he asks after a moment, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from groaning at how painfully awkward this conversation has become; a travesty considering how easy our conversation was before.
“My brother, his husband, and my boss signed me up for the retreat as a birthday present.”
“That’s nice of them. Happy belated birthday.”
“Thanks.” I frown.
The silence that follows is heavier than before. I wish I had asked him earlier to turn on the radio, because asking now just seems rude. I guess we are stuck talking then, and he asked me the last question, so it’s my turn now.
“How long have you been driving?”
“Umm,” he says, and shoots me a confused look. “Since I was sixteen?”
I let out a sigh. I should have just asked him to turn the music on.
After a few more tortured seconds of silence, he decides to try again, “So, you like reading?”
“Since I was sixteen,” I say, mocking his answer to my previous question. It sounded funny in my mind, but now that it’s out, I realize it is a lame retort.
“Only a few years then, interesting.” I shoot him a look, and he laughs it off. “Do you have any favorite books?”
“Are you serious?” I demand.
“What?” he asks, pretending to be confused.
“We were just asking each other in sexy voices what we were wearing back there on the phone, and your next step is to ask what kind of books I like?” I’m not sure if it’s Epic Drew or the hangover causing me to be so forward. “Isn’t that moving backward on the flirting scale?”
His eyebrows shoot up as he puts on his turn signal to change lanes. “Are we flirting?”
“Before, yes. But I’m not sure what this is now,” I say, gesturing between us.
He is silent for a moment. Just as I worry that I somehow hurt his feelings again, a smile tugs at his full lips. “You think that my voice is sexy?”
“You’re insufferable.”
He grins as we pull off the highway. “The coffee shop is just off this exit, and you never answered my question.”
I sigh. “Yes, your voice is sexy. But I’m sure you already know that.”
“Thank you, I think yours is too, but I meant the question where I asked if you had any favorite books.”
I suddenly long for my curse, missing the times when I could count on it to lurk around every corner and strike at any given moment.
A telephone pole materializing in the middle of the road would be an easy way to take me out of this misery, so long as we hit it on my side of the car only, of course.
When no such road hazard appears, the awful realization hits me that this awkward conversation is my curse in action, having a little fun at my expense.
New and novel, as Monika always says. I sigh and decide to play along.
At least this ride will be over soon, and I’ll never have to see Cameron again.
“My mom was a librarian and named me and my brother after authors and names she saw in books, so naturally, I’ve read every Nancy Drew book multiple times. Evelyn Graves is a recent favorite too. Have you heard of her?”
“I have,” he says, and looks like he is going to say something else but stops. After a few seconds of silence, he adds, “It must have been fun having a librarian for a mom.”
“She died giving birth to me,” I say. “So, I didn’t really get the benefit of that.”
I cringe at how defensive my words sound and say sorry at the same second that he does. We make eye contact at our simultaneous apology, and my breath gets caught in my chest.
I clear my throat and quickly look back out the window. “It’s fine. My dad made up for both roles. How about you? Do you like to read?”
“The only thing I’ve had time to read lately is deposition transcripts, but I love reading.”
His answer gives me a clue about what he studied in school, and I completely understand why he would sign up to do this job. Law school is not cheap. He looks to be around my age, or maybe a bit older, so he must have graduated a few years back.
“That’s why I’m doing this,” he says, as if reading my mind. “My mom ran the business, but she and my father both passed away in November, so I am trying to decide if it’s best to sell it or take over and really be a part of it.”
“Oh.” His parents must have been a fun pair to start a hunk-for-hire business.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. I lost my dad too.
Eight years ago, so I know how hard it is in the aftermath to balance moving forward while still honoring their legacy .
. .” The words die in my mouth as I realize how inappropriate they are.
Most people don’t want to talk about the loss of their parents at work, and with his parents’ deaths being so recent, I should have just kept my mouth shut.
He slows the car to a stop in front of the coffee shop, deep in thought. Thankfully, there aren’t any cars behind us to honk at him, because we are not in a parking spot, just sitting in the middle of the aisle.
“Do you want to go inside? Talk a little more?” he asks, looking in my direction but not meeting my eyes.
I blink, trying to make sense of his offer.
Is this a consolatory two-adult orphans getting coffee kind of invitation?
Or part of the hunky driver package? Something else completely?
My fuzzy brain has sharpened some since exiting the plane, but I cannot sort through the mixed cues of this drive to determine which one he is proposing, or which scenario I want it to be.
After a second that feels like an eternity, he takes a deep breath and raises his eyes to meet mine, and in that moment, I know without a doubt what his intentions are and how I need to respond to his pending offer.