I’d like something to hide behind, a shield to protect me from Mick’s curious glances until I can purge the sour from my system.
“Want to talk about it?” He eases out into the airport traffic, heading back toward downtown and the hotel Naomi booked for us.
“Talk about what?” I sniff and keep my focus out the window, watching people dragging luggage and children into the terminal on their way to destinations unknown.
I’ve never been on a plane before and can’t imagine what it would have been like to go on an airplane trip when I was a kid. Back then, Mama and I barely had money for groceries, let alone planes or vacations.
“The fact that you’ve been scowling since we left your mom’s hotel, maybe?” Mick says gently. “Did you two get into a fight while I was grabbing breakfast?”
“No.” I don’t intend to say anything else about it. Unfortunately, it seems my lips don’t get the memo. “She just drives me crazy,” I say in a rush. “She wouldn’t stop talking about how amazing you are, and what a good job I’d done forcing you to date me or whatever. She just went on and on, even when I told her I didn’t want to talk about it.”
He grins. “Well, I am pretty amazing.”
“No, seriously,” I say, not in the mood for jokes. “To hear my mom talk, this morning was my greatest accomplishment. Apparently, getting a good-looking guy to drive me to New Orleans is the most impressive thing I’ve achieved in twenty-three years of life.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he reaches out to rest a warm hand on my thigh. “Yeah, well…I think it’s obvious your mom’s priorities are a little out of order.”
I snort. “You think?”
“Have I told you I like it when you snort?” he asks, making me snort again, this time with laughter. “Because I do,” he continues. “I think it’s sexy.”
“You’re weird, Whitehouse.” I smile his way, admiring how the morning sun lights up his strong profile.
He grins back, his blue eyes sparkling. “You feel better?”
“A little,” I say in a grudging tone that I’m not really feeling anymore. It’s kind of crazy how fast he can cheer me up.
“Then do you think you can help me find the hotel? I could use a navigator.”
“Sure.” I pick up his phone. A few moments later I have the info loaded into the GPS. “You need to head right out of the airport and get back on the highway. But looks like we’re only twenty or thirty minutes away.”
“Thank God.” He sighs. “I’m so tired I’m starting to hallucinate. I swear I thought I saw a clown waiting at that last crosswalk.”
I twist around to look through the truck’s back glass and my brows shoot up. “You’re not hallucinating. There’s a guy in a clown suit, wearing a ball cap, and carrying a guitar case.” I turn back around with a laugh. “Looks like New Orleans is a pretty entertaining place.”
“Too bad all we have time to do is sleep,” Mick says with a yawn. “But I’m too beat to even think about seeing the sights.”
“Me, too. A cold, dark room with some heavy blankets and a fan going sounds like heaven right now.”
He moans. “Oh man, that does sound good. I love a cold room when I’m sleeping. And lots of blankets.”
I make a soft considering sound, trying to play it cool. “Guess we’ll be compatible bed partners, then.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” he asks, a husky note in his voice that makes me blush.
“I’m going to be too tired for that too,” I warn. “So, don’t get any ideas.”
“I know.” He pats my leg with an affection that makes my chest feel tight. “Just teasing you, Miller. That all right?”
“That’s all right,” I say before turning my attention back to the directions, ignoring the flutters in my belly.
I definitely want to explore our…compatibility, but right now things still feel new and a little raw. I’ve never been as honest with a guy—or maybe with anyone—as I was with Mick this morning.
I don’t know if it was the exhaustion that made me drop the walls or the sincerity in his eyes, but that was a lot of sharing for me and I’m feeling a little shell-shocked. I need time to adjust to the fact that we’re officially a couple before taking the next step.
A couple.
We’re a couple, and Mick Whitehouse is my boyfriend.
It’s…surreal, but true.
Now to figure out an easy way to tell him that he’s only my second serious boyfriend and that I’m probably a lot more inexperienced than the other women he’s dated recently.
Ugh, not yet. Sleep first. Then I’ll start figuring.
“Take the next exit,” I say as the green line on the screen veers off the highway up ahead. “Then turn right. The Carriage House should be on our left.”
He follows my directions, and within a few minutes, my battered pickup is pulling up in front of a stately old mansion, complete with gigantic white pillars, antique lanterns burning on either side of the doors, and a gold plate on the bricks proclaiming The Carriage House a place of historical interest.
Two live oak trees twine their gnarled branches together in front of the home-turned-hotel, blocking part of the second floor from view, but I’ve already seen enough to know Naomi must have dropped some serious cash on these rooms. I’ve never stayed in a hotel with pillars before, or with attendants who rush to open my truck door like I’m visiting royalty.
“Welcome to the Carriage House.” The man wearing an old-fashioned suit offers me a hand down to the ground. “May I help with your bags, miss?”
“Um, thanks.” I slide out without touching his hand—mostly because I’m not sure how to do it the right way—and grab my camo backpack from the floorboards. The man reaches to take it and I stammer, “I meant, no thanks. Sorry. I can carry it. It’s small. No big deal.”
“Of course, miss.” The man—Thomas, according to his shiny gold nametag—smiles in a way that makes me feel slightly less stupid. Like he gets that this is all a bit much, but it’s part of the job for him. “Do you have any other luggage you’ll need help with today?”
I shake my head, grateful when Mick appears beside me. He hands Thomas the keys to the truck and a ten-dollar bill, thanking him before taking my hand and leading me up the wide brick steps to the door.
I peek up at him as we walk, but if he feels self-conscious that we aren’t even half as well-dressed as the people who work here—let alone the other guests I see milling around—he doesn’t show it.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I whisper as we step into the lobby, an elegant room filled with thick rugs, antique furniture, and lush potted plants and flowers.
The check-in desk is made of wood so polished it glows in the dim light. Across the room, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a courtyard with a pool and over-stuffed outdoor cabana chairs that look fancier than my couch. My indoor couch. And I spent good money on that couch, determined to have one thing in my apartment that wasn’t purchased at a garage sale.
“This is it.” He squeezes my hand. “Don’t be nervous. Naomi always does this.”