Wordlessly I slide my own glass across the table to him as I take the red from his hand, ignoring the strange sense of familiarity as our fingers brush.

The wine is bold, a little leathery in the best way possible.

I swirl and sniff, then take a small sip, then another. “Cab. Also California.”

He’s watching me. A quick nod is the confirmation that I’m right. No praise, but then I don’t need it.

He takes a sip of my wine, and then we wordlessly switch back, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to be sharing wine. Once, it would have been. Once, I’d imagined all my nights would be just like this one, sitting across from him, coaxing his broody self into conversation, as we analyze and enjoy wine.

Of course, I hadn’t anticipated it happening like this—with the two of us alternating between wanting to kill each other and not speaking at all.

The quiet tension is interrupted by the arrival of my crab cake. “Brought an extra setting,” the server said, placing a small plate and napkin roll-up in front of Reece.

Reece is already pushing his chair back. “No thanks. I’ll grab something at the bar.”

“Wait,” I say, before I can think better of it.

Reece stills as the server moves away, not giving a shit about our little drama.

“You can stay,” I say. “If you want.”

His gaze flickers darkly. “Not interested.”

“We can talk about wine,” I say, a little desperately. “We don’t have to get…personal.”

We don’t have to fight.

I see him waver, and I lean forward, suddenly desperate not to eat dinner all by myself. “Or we can not talk at all. Your choice.” Just don’t leave.

He settled back in his chair, looking annoyed with himself, even as he reaches for the napkin. “I’ll stay. But no talking. Too many witnesses for when I feel the unavoidable urge to strangle you.”

I resist smiling in victory as we quietly dive into the crab cakes.

My phone buzzes and, out of habit, I turn it over, exhaling when I see that it’s Oscar. Finally.

thinking of u. can’t wait to see my baby.

There it is. This is what I’ve wanted—to know that he’s thinking of me. That he even remembers he has a girlfriend.

But as I sneak a glance across the table at Reece’s brooding expression, I’m struck by the uncomfortable realization that I’m not nearly as excited about Oscar’s text as I should be.

Chapter 13

Reece

The next day, we don’t even make it as far as the gas station in Wilmington before we start bickering over the radio.

“Okay that’s it,” I snap. “New rule. Whoever’s driving controls the radio.”

She glares at me behind her aviator shades, tapping her fingers on that stupid journal that she started scribbling in the second we got into the car. The way her pen moves furiously across the notebook gives me no doubts about what she’s writing: how she plans to kill me and bury the body.

“Your stupid plan would totally be fair,” she says cheerfully, “if you were ever going to let me drive.”

I grind my teeth, debating my options. On the one hand, I really hate country music. I’m not even sure she likes it that much, she’s just tolerating it to torture me.

On the other hand, I’m already having serious doubts about my ability to survive this trip. Being so close to her all the damn time without being able to touch her is making me crazy.

Driving at least will keep my hands occupied, but my ears will pay the price.

“We’ll take turns on the music,” I finally snarl. “Switch stations every half hour.”

“Great, I’ll go first,” she says sweetly, reaching over and cranking up some hideous song about a front porch.

I fill up Horny with gas (no amount of my tinkering could improve the car’s crappy gas mileage), while Lucy goes into the store to get goodies. Her word.

She comes out just as I’m going back around to the driver’s side, and I stop and stare, just for a second. She’s wearing tiny denim shorts again, this time they’re white, and a body-hugging pink T-shirt that has more than one truck driver salivating as she makes her way back to me and the car.

I finally tear my eyes away from her legs long enough to register that she’s raided half the store. “I was thinking of stopping at McDonald’s for breakfast,” I say irritably.

She merely smiles and comes around to my side of the car, motioning to the backseat so I can open the back door for her. “Sounds great.”

“My point was you didn’t need to clean their shelves.”

“Yeah, I got your point, Grumpy,” she says, shoving the two bulging paper bags into a sliver of space behind my seat.

Just before she slams the door, she slaps something against my chest, and I glance down, emotions simmering as I register the familiar yellow bag. Peanut M&M’s. My favorite, because they’d been my mom’s favorite.

I resist the urge to hurl the bag at her ponytail as she goes around to the passenger side. I feel like a child for thinking it, but: It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that this girl knows me so well, that she can wiggle beneath my defenses with something as simple as a candy purchase.

The thing is, I suspect she didn’t even do it to torture me. I think she just knew that I’d want the damn candy later. Anticipating me, as she always has.

I drop the M&M bag into the console between us, and neither of us says a word as I pull out of the gas station and head toward the freeway.