“Hmm,” Hollis hums, distracted. “I’d imagine it’s a lot like riding a bike, though?”
I pause with my fingers pinching the pull of his zipper. “I think you’ve been riding bikes wrong.”
The tension in his face as he waits for my next move—his eyes shut tight, lips pressed together, the deep line that forms between his furrowed brows—reminds me of last night, before we kissed. Except this time it isn’t fear or anxiety, it’s pure desire. And thisisn’t some fantasy of fooling around with a childhood celebrity crush for him. He is extremely aware, after all we’ve been through, that I am not Penelope Stuart, but an actual real, live, weird human being. Hollis isn’t hard for Millicent Watts-Cohen, former Screen Actors Guild member and notorious yellow bikini wearer. He’s hard for Millie—the awkward woman who makes references to ’80s comedies and can’t order her own food. He’s hard forme.
The urge to test the boundaries of this power makes me abandon his zipper and stroke him lightly through his jeans instead. Considering how frustrated and hot it’s making me, I know it must be torture for him. Which only makes it better.
“You’re the worst.” He groans. But the tiniest hint of a smile shows at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, well, if I’m the worst...” I stop moving my hand, making it a heavy, stationary weight in his lap.
He chuckles in this incredulous way that I find oddly adorable and tilts his head back. His eyes dart to the side until they hold mine, and it’s the same look he gave me at José Napoleoni’s. The two-can-play-this-game look. It makes me blush so intensely that even my toes turn pink.
“I loved it when you came on my tongue this morning,” he says matter-of-factly, as if talking about stock prices or the weather. “Do you know what you taste like, Mill? Like cherry tomatoes, straight from the garden. Sweet and bright and like an endless summer day. You taste like a memory. One I want to revisit again and again and— Ahhhh! Jesus Christ!”
Hollis clutches his chest, his gaze directed just above my shoulder. My first instinct is ghosts. This mall parking lot is probably haunted by some cool rebellious teens who busted their headsskateboarding here in the ’90s. But then Hollis exhales and says, “Connie.” Which makes a lot more sense, I guess.
I glance behind me, and sure enough, there she is. Connie gives me a friendly smile and a wave. When I try to lower my window, it doesn’t budge since the engine is off. So I unlock the door and get out of the car instead. I am aware I’m still blushing furiously, but there’s not much that can be done about that. Still, I mumble something about it being surprisingly warm in the car in an effort to explain it away.
“Sorry to sneak up on y’all,” she says. “Thought this looked like Ryan’s car, then saw the Gadsley High Marching Band bumper sticker and figured it had to be.” She hands me my backpack. “Hope y’all weren’t waiting long. There was a bit of traffic gettin’ through town ’cause of the pie-eating contest.”
“Oh, not at all. We just got here and were... we were...” Shit. The only thing my brain is generating is a replay of me running my fingers over Hollis’s erection and him saying I taste like cherry tomatoes, and I can’t tell Conniethat. “Talking about gardening. Anyway, thank you so much.”
“Well, you are very welcome. Now, I hope y’all have a safe and uneventful rest of your trip.”
“Me too. Thanks again for everything.”
I smile at her. She flashes me one in return, but it fades after a moment.
Connie hesitates as if unsure whether she wants to say something. If it’s about how Hollis and I should probably not engage in heavy petting in parking lots, I’m okay with skipping that conversation.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says, apparently making up hermind. “It might not be any of my business, but I would like to know if it’s something about me, something I need to change to make Gadsley Manor feel more welcoming...”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to reveal just how simultaneously nervous I am about where this is headed and relieved that it’s likely not about her seeing my hand on Hollis’s crotch.
“Why did you and Hollis register under his last name and let me think y’all were married?”
“Whaaaat?” I aim for bemused, but it sounds absurdly fake even to my ears. Again, I was never actually good at acting.
Connie folds her arms over her ample bosom, covering the embroidered monogram on her pullover. “I might be old, darlin’, but I know how to use Wikipedia. I looked you up after you told us that you used to be on TV. Didn’t say anything about you ever havin’ a husband, or even a fiancé.”
I’m about to say that’s probably because I’m not important enough for anyone to care about documenting my relationship status on the internet, which is the truth (barring the Broccoli Festival make-out session video, but that’s only coincidentally about me). Except before I can articulate my response, Hollis appears by my side. My eyes dart to the front of his jeans to check on that situation; it seems to be under control. Which, of course it is. He’s thirty-one years old. This is not his first inconvenient boner rodeo.
“Hi, Miss Connie. That whole thing was all my fault. Millicent sometimes has issues with people being invasive of her privacy, and because we arrived so late at night and without knowing anything about y’all or the town, I thought if I put her name as Millicent Hollenbeck she might have a better chance of going unrecognized. I was just trying to look out for her, but because I wastired and a bit rattled by the accident, I went about it in a sorta silly way.” He hangs his head, his eyes tilting up toward Connie like a basset hound puppy’s, so cute and innocent. “I am very sorry I lied to you, ma’am.” Based on this performance, you’d think Hollis was the one who used to be on TV.
“Oh, now that is sweet,” Connie says. “And I must say I was fooled for a while, what with the way y’all look all googly-eyed at each other and bicker like old married folks. Maybe it won’t be long till we have a Mr. and Mrs. Hollenbeck stay with us for real, hmm? We book out Gadsley Manor for weddings, you know...”
Hollis’s usual light-olive complexion drains of color when Connie gives him an exaggerated wink. I hug her tightly before she makes any comments about our future children and frightens the rest of the blood from his body. “Thank you again for bringing my bag. We appreciate it so much. But we better get going before we get even more behind schedule.”
Connie hugs Hollis, and he murmurs a quick thanks. As predicted, Connie heads for the entrance to Belk.
Hollis gestures to the driver’s side, his face still unnaturally pale. “Uh, you mind driving for a bit? I’d like to get some more writing done.”
“I didn’t think you’d trust me behind the wheel again after what happened.”
“The deer really wasn’t your fault. Also, this isn’t my car, so what do I care?” He opens the passenger-side door and slides inside.
Once I’m settled in the driver’s seat, I riffle through my backpack to make sure Mrs. Nash, the letters, and everything else is there and undamaged. Not that I don’t trust Connie, but I feel a lot better after I take inventory and a few deep breaths.
