“About my tattoos? Nope. I simply don’t think they’re that interesting.”
I turn slightly in my seat to face him. “You’re telling me this tattoo,” I say, pointing to the one on his right forearm, which seems to depict a piece of paper covered in squiggly writing, which has been set on fire by the flames of a red phoenix, “means nothing?”
“I’m a fan of phoenixes,” he replies with a tone of finality.
I shrug. “Okay, you can keep your secrets. But a word of advice: if you want to keep something a secret, you might not want to tattoo it on your forearm.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember that next time.”
“You’re an infuriating smart-ass, you know that?”
He lets out a sexy guffaw. “Thank you. I pride myself on infuriating the beautiful women in my life.”
I stare at him in silence for a moment, my heart racing as the word beautiful echoes in my mind. But I decide not to call attention to it. The word probably slipped out unintentionally.
After a few minutes, the silence is broken by a car behind us blasting their horn.
Ethan glances in the rear-view mirror, looking more than a bit confused. “What your problem? I’m driving the speed limit,” he says, looking to me beseechingly. “Aren’t I?”
I try not to laugh as I glance at the digital speedometer and see he’s indeed driving the speed limit at almost exactly fifty-five miles per hour. “It’s not your speed. It’s the fact that you’re doing fifty-five in the fast lane. You’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh as he signals to change lanes. “How did I know you would say something about my driving on the wrong side of the road? Would you prefer to drive?”
“I promise I’m not teasing you. And, no, I can’t drive.”
He glances at me as he settles into the right lane, an expression of vague curiosity lighting up his dark eyes. “Are you one of those New Yorkers who’s never learned to drive?”
“Yup,” I reply, hoping he can hear the tone of finality in my voice the way I heard it in his earlier.
His smile widens. “So, you’ve lived in New York your entire life?”
“Except for culinary school, yes.”
His smile suddenly dims, and my stomach clenches as I begin to feel judged. “Oh, I didn’t know that,” he says.
Despite the fact that he likely saw Le Cordon Bleu Paris listed under “Education” on my resume, I find it odd he doesn’t take this opportunity to ask me about culinary school. It seems like the logical continuation of the conversation.
Not that I want him to ask about my education. That conversation might open up a can of worms I’m not ready to deal with, considering I have no intention of telling Ethan about the teaching internship I was offered at my alma mater. I’ve decided I can’t risk losing my job again. If Ethan knows about my recent email from Le Cordon Bleu, my prospects of being promoted to sous chef might evaporate.
As I adjust positions in my seat to disguise the sudden tension in my muscles, the traffic in front of us begins to slow. “Traffic already?” I remark, reaching into my pocket for my phone, so I can check the traffic alerts for I-95. “Ugh. There’s an accident about eight miles ahead.”
“Eight miles?” he says, glancing at my phone. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”
I can’t help but look at him like he’s crazy. “Eight miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic in New York is a nightmare. We could be here for more than an hour.”
“An hour? We won’t make it in time. Is there another road we can take?”
The traffic is moving at a crawl, but it’s not at a complete stand-still.
“I don’t know,” I reply, not bothering to remind him that I don’t drive. “Let me check Google Maps.”
He taps the steering wheel impatiently as I search for a faster route.
I shake my head as I tap on the last option offered by the app. “There are a few other roads, but by the time we get off the parkway and detour back to I-95, we’ll probably only save about five to ten minutes. We should just stay here in case it clears up.”
The concern in his face makes me feel slightly guilty.
“I’m sorry for suggesting this. You could be back at the restaurant working on another solution to the cabinet problem right now.”
He appears puzzled. “You didn’t break the cabinet. You didn’t cause this traffic. Why are you apologizing for something out of your control?”
His words hit me like a fist in the gut, rendering me speechless.
He shakes his head. “It’s not my place to tell you what to do, Alice, but I think you could dial back the apologies.”
My eyebrows shoot up as I attempt to regain my composure. “Uh...you’re right. It’s not your place to tell me what to do, so I’ll kindly ask you to stop.”
“Kindly? Sort of the way you kindly keep apologizing.”
My eyes widen. “Excuse me? Are you taking your frustrations with the traffic out on me? I seem to remember you were the one apologizing to me last night after taking your frustrations out on me yesterday. I would tread carefully if I were you.”
His face transforms into a beaming grin and the sight of the dimple he shares with Edward gets my heart racing. “That’s more like it,” he says approvingly.
I roll my eyes and focus my attention on my phone screen. I need to find something to distract me from the fluttering sensation in my belly. Was he trying to goad me into standing up for myself?
I ponder this question in silence for a while until he seems to tire of the quietude and reaches over to turn on the stereo. But as soon as he taps the power button on the touchscreen, the truck is filled with loud big band music. He immediately turns the volume down as Perry Como begins singing “Papa Loves Mambo.”
I reach for the touchscreen to try another one of the satellite radio presets, but Ethan grabs my hand to stop me.
“What are you doing? This is one of my favorite songs,” he says as he shuts his eyes and sings along to the punchy tune.
I can barely hear him over the music and the pounding of my heart as I stare at my hand clutched in his. I want to pull my hand away, but I also don’t. And watching him put his heart and soul into his recital makes me not want to interrupt him. How can my body react to him so favorably when I’m sickened by the thought of his twin touching me?
Finally, Ethan opens his eyes and realizes he’s still holding my hand. Hanging on for perhaps a second too long, he eventually lets go and flashes me a sly smile that sets my heart racing again.
“You don’t like Perry Como?” he asks innocently, as if he has no clue the effect he had on me with the hand-holding and his little performance.
“That’s not really my generation of music.”
“And you think it’s mine? How old do you think I—” He stops himself as he seems to remember I already know his birthday. “Well, that’s awkward,” he says, and I’m grateful for his attempt to ease the tension brought on by his almost-slip-up.
But the tension creeps back again, becoming heavier the longer we go without speaking, as it only serves to draw more attention to the topic we’re avoiding.