Page 6 of Truth or More Truth
She slowly looks me up and down as we stand in line for the shuttle, and a long-dormant fluttery feeling fires up in my belly at her perusal.
“You look like you’re capable of a lot of things,” she finally says.
What’s that supposed to mean?
three
. . .
Why did I say that? Why am I flirting with Bobby Jacobs? I hate him! Well, maybe I don’t hate him, but I’m not exactly a fan, even if he looks even better in his dark-wash jeans and camel-colored cashmere sweater than he does in a suit. But I do hate the look he’s giving me right now, informing me he knows I’m checking him out and like what I see.
I stifle a groan. “I mean, I know you live in L.A., so I guess I assumed you’re not into winter sports. Where do you ski?”
“Usually Tahoe. Sometimes Vail. Do you ski?” he asks.
“My grandparents had a cabin in Vermont.” Well, they called it a cabin. Most people would call it a chalet. “When I was a kid, we went there every winter to ski. My parents sold the place after my grandparents passed. I went skiing in Aspen with friends a few times during college, but that was more about partying than skiing, if I’m honest.”
The shuttle arrives, and Bobby carries all our bags on and slots them onto the luggage rack before taking a seat beside me. We’re silent on the ride to the long-term parking lot, and I try not to focus on the fact that his shoulder is pressed up against mine. There’s nobody on his other side, so I’m not sure why he won’t shift over, but I’m not about to ask him to do so. Undoubtedly he’d make abig deal out of it.
When we reach our stop, he gathers my luggage again and follows me through the lot until we reach my car.
“Thisis your car?” he asks as I unlock the trunk of my blue, two-door Honda Prelude.
I whirl toward him. “What’s wrong with my car?”
Bobby’s eyes widen. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with your car.”
“You got that right,” I mutter as I grab for my suitcase.
“I’ve got it.” Bobby snatches the suitcase out from under me, and before I know it, all my bags are in the trunk.
I’m braced to argue with him on who’s going to drive—even though it’s my car—but he rounds the car to the passenger side and waits for me to get in and unlock his door. Even more shocking, after he gets in and adjusts the seat, he puts on his seatbelt.
“I didn’t take you for a seatbelt kind of guy,” I state.
He angles his body toward me as much as he can in the confining space. He’s not an overly large man—I’d estimate six feet and maybe 180 pounds—but my small car definitely won’t be comfortable for him on this long trip. Not that I feel sorry for him.
He holds one finger up. “One, it’s the law now, and I’m a law-abiding citizen. And two,” another finger goes up, “you don’t take me for someone who values their own life?”
I roll my eyes and reach into the backseat, grab my road atlas, and plop it on his lap. “Shut up and tell me where to go.”
“Hmm.” He taps a finger on his lips. “Which part of that order should I obey—the shutting up part or the talking part? It’ll be hard to do both.”
“Bobby Jacobs, I swear if you don’t stop irritating me, I’m dropping you off at the bus station.” I purse my lips. “Also, I need to know your middle name, so I can use it when I’m extra irritated.”
“It’s Ebenezer,” he deadpans.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Nice one.”
“Honest.”
I shift the car into reverse to leave the parking spot. “Still don’t believe you.”
“Believe whatever you want.” He pauses. “But maybe it’s Sebastian.”
“Robert Sebastian Jacobs?” I huff out a laugh. “I don’t think so. I’m going to call you Bobby Joe.”
“Why would you call me that?”
