Ah, my little pink Fiat. I’ve missed her. Gray hates the car, and I get that. He’s way too big for it, proven by the way the seat has been rolled back as far as it can go and yet he still has to cram himself behind the wheel while muttering curses.
For weeks I’ve tried to envision Gray driving this car. Nothing does the reality justice. His hard-packed muscles bunch and twitch, his wide shoulders hunch, and his long legs bend awkwardly. The steering wheel looks delicate under his big hands.
“Oh, this is so awesome,” I say, barely holding in my snickering.
Gray turns to glare at me, but his blue eyes are smiling. “This is why you wanted me to drive, isn’t it?”
“Partially. You just look so cute.” I give his cheek a tweak.
He bats my hand away with a short laugh. “Little punk. I swear to God, I’m gonna find a way to get you back.”
“I’m terrified. Truly.”
We’re soon driving down the highway. Despite Gray’s cramped position, he maneuvers the car with ease. I can imagine him on the field, those quick reflexes of his working in perfect tandem with his body. It must be a beautiful sight. I’ve wanted to view footage of his games, but just as I’ve feared seeing his picture, so have I feared watching him play. Some part of me didn’t want to know. I might have become too shy, too enamored of his talent if I knew those things.
I roll the window down a bit, and cold, asphalt-tinged air blows in. “I’ve missed the scent of America.”
He glances at me. “America has a scent?”
“Yeah. Don’t ask me to describe it, but it does. England has a scent too.” I lean my head against the headrest and watch the world pass by. “Cars feel different when they’re driving on the other side. Do you know how long it took me just to figure out which way to look for traffic when crossing the street?” I sigh, the feeling of homecoming sinking further into my bones. “I loved being in England. But now that I’m here, I realize how much I missed home.”
Gray’s forearm brushes my knee as he reaches for his iPhone dock. He fiddles with his song selection before sitting back. Tom Petty’s American Girl floods the space. Gray gives me a cheeky grin, and I return it. “Only half-American,” I say. “My mom’s a Brit.”
He chuckles. “Noted.”
For the entire song, we don’t speak but simply drive. It’s both odd and entirely normal. I have so much that I want to say to Gray now that we aren’t limited by texting. But it can wait. Something about him puts me at ease enough to just enjoy the moment.
“Can I ask you something?” he says when the song ends.
My lips purse. “When someone says that, it’s usually because they’re about to insult you.”
He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in good humor. “Fair enough. And my question will probably be construed as insulting.”
“Mmm.” I fight a smile. I can’t help it; driving down the highway with Gray just makes me happy. “Go ahead then. But beware, I bite when provoked.”
“Promises, promises.” He grips the steering wheel, the ropey muscles in his thick forearms bunching as he does it. “Why did your dad get you this car? Don’t get me wrong, it’s got great styling for what it is and handles well. But I mean, you’ve got to be what?” Pink races up his cheeks as his gaze travels over my legs. “Six feet tall?”
He had to bring it up. Of course he did. I don’t think I’ve met a guy who hasn’t remarked on my height. But I act unaffected.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m a petite five foot twelve.”
Gray grins wide at my joke. It’s a good look for him. Lines bracket his mouth. They’re kind of like dimples but longer. Just as irresistible, though.
“Cute,” he says, changing lanes with confidence. “So, Little Miss Five-Twelve, why the clown car?”
I sigh and lean back against the seat, trying to find room for my legs. “I think my dad still sees me as his baby girl. And compared to him, I am small.”
“Shit, I’m small compared to your dad,” Gray says easily. He’s exaggerating, but not by much. Dad has a few inches on him. Before my dad was an agent, he’d played center in the NBA. He might have gone into coaching, but Dad always liked the kill of the deal better than the stress of the game.
“Okay, but pink? It really doesn’t seem like your color,” Gray says with a pointed look at my clothes.
I’m wearing black skinny jeans, a vintage The Cure concert tee, and red Chucks. No, I’m not much for pink.
“There’s also the problem that he often confuses me with Fiona. As in, one Christmas I got Fi’s coveted Barbie Dream Townhouse, and she got my much-desired make-your-own-alien kit.” I shrug. “Now it’s cars. I’m stuck with a pink Fiat that I can barely squeeze into and little five-foot-three Fi’s swimming around in a black Acura MDX.”
“Shit.” Gray shakes his head. “That sucks, Mac.”
“The only consolation is that Fi is equally miffed.”
“Why don’t you guys just exchange cars?”
The million-dollar question. I thrum my fingers against the window pane. “First off, he bought us cars. How many kids can say that? We knew how lucky we were in that regard. And we didn’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings. Despite his faults, he’d be mortified if he realized his blunder. Dad tries, you know? He’s just…kind of clueless when it comes to us.”
Gray nods, but there’s a sadness in his expression that says he’s got no idea what it means to deal with a caring-yet-misguided parent. Until now, we haven’t talked about family. Me, because Gray plans to sign my dad as his agent.