Jamie sighs wistfully. “I knew him working for you would be a good idea.”
Yeah … Some great idea, Jamie.
We both fall silent again, watching the actor on stage.
I chew on my next question.
It’s none of my business.
I deliberate some more.
“Is uh — Is Huxley still dating that girl?”
I internally cringe, hoping my question is innocuous enough not to raise suspicion.
Jamie lets out a puff of air. “Hell if I know.God forbidHuxley tells Ozzy anything. We get all our information from Soph.”
I laugh under my breath at her exasperation as I try to conceal my disappointment at the lack of information.
My next question slips out as if having a mind of its own. “I mean, you both wouldn’t really care who he dates, right?”
God, I’m so obvious.
I’m uncertain why I’m even asking the question in the first place. It’s not as if I have any intention of dating Huxley. Thankfully, Jamie doesn’t pick up on my lack of finesse.
She’s watching the next actor step on stage when she answers me. “As long as he’s happy.”
I watchHuxley half-jog up to the curb where I’ve parked outside his apartment. As promised, I’ve been driving him to and from work since last week. We haven’t snapped at each other once since, and I’m starting to think that our shared secret history isfinallybehind us.
“Morning,” I sing-song as he opens the door.
“Hey,” he mumbles under his breath as he gets in. He drops his bag on his snowy boots and rubs his hands together. “It’s cold as tits out there.”
“Yeah,” I answer distractedly as I pull into the street. “Saysit’s snowing all day. It’d be the perfect day to just stay in and watch movies.”
“That’s too bad,” Huxley responds.
Something about his tone has my throat going dry, and I pretend I can’t feel his eyes on me.
“Want to put something on?” I ask innocently, steering the conversation into a much safer territory—like who’s in charge of the aux today.
“Sure.”
He fiddles with his phone, and moments later, a song starts to play. Happily distracted, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, and we listen to music in comfortable silence all the way to the theatre.
“I didn’t know you were into Southern Gothic,” I tell Huxley as I park the car, commenting on the playlist we were just listening to.
“Yeah,” he says, a little surprised. “You like it?”
I shoot him a grin and a sideways glance. “I love.”
Walking into the Remington, we’re about to part ways when Huxley stops me.
“Hold up, I have something for you.”
I swivel around to face him. “Me?”
“It’s nothing,” he says quickly as he unzips his bag slung on one of his shoulders.
