Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(24)

I also drive a car that matches my size. Beside my Mini is a massive, ostentatious Hummer in lime green. I snort. “I bet some five-foot-nothing bald guy drives that thing.”

“Why do you think that?” Lance checks out the beast of a vehicle.

“Oh, come on, you know what they say about guys who drive big trucks.” When all I get is a look of confusion I continue. “That they must be compensating for something?”

“What if it’s a girl who drives it?” he asks.

“No girl would drive something that big. It’s not practical.” I hit the unlock button and shimmy between the Hummer and my car. Of course I have to become the least graceful person on the face of the Earth and bang my head on the Hummer’s side mirror, dropping my keys in the process.

“I got them.” Lance swoops into the confined space and bends to retrieve them. I just need to get out of here so I can stop acting like an idiot in front of him. I rub my head, checking for a bump.

“Are you okay?” Instead of handing me my keys, he shoves them in his pocket.

“I’m fine.”

“Let me have a look.”

“Seriously. I’m just clumsy.”

He ignores me and turns me around. “Whereabouts you hit your head?”

I rub the small lump forming at the back. Lance shifts my ponytail out of the way and slides his fingers under my hair, beside mine. I’m glad I washed it this morning, otherwise it would be a greasy mess.

“There’s a bump. I think you should probably sue whoever owns this asshole ride.” Lance knocks on the passenger side door. “Should we leave a note?”

“Stop making fun of me.”

“I’m totally serious. What if you have a concussion?”

“Can I have my keys now?”

“Concussions are dangerous business.”

I hold my hand out.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself, but if you end up with memory loss, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Well, I won’t remember anyway if that happens, will I?”

“I guess not.” Instead of dangling the keys from his finger, Lance’s places them in my palm.

I’m positive I stop breathing. I look down to where his hand molds to mine, and then up to his face. God. His expression is intense. He drops the keys into my palm and closes my fingers around them, covering them with his other hand.

“I should know you.” He looks so forlorn.

It reminds me of when I was just a girl with a silly crush.

I’d wanted him to remember me when I saw him in that bar last year, to be the same honest, kind boy I’d met all those years ago. When we’d been invited back to his house that night, part of me had still hoped he’d remember me. But he didn’t.

I feel like I’m melting inside, and a rush of emotions makes me want to tell him he does know me, but I tamp that down, biting back words that will probably cause me more trouble than good.

My phone buzzes in my purse, and he expels a sharp breath, retracting his hands. He reaches for the handle and stands there a moment before he says, “Thanks for taking care of me today.”

As he opens the door for me I mumble, “You’re welcome.”

I don’t know how else to respond. I feel like his words are loaded, and I’m suddenly terrified of the mistake I’ve made in giving him my number.

Because now I’m not sure what’s going to be worse: him finally remembering who I am and how we know each other, or me realizing I never left enough of an impact to warrant being remembered at all.





CHAPTER 7


COMPENSATING

POPPY

Lance closes the door and taps the roof of my car. The Hummer beside my Mini beeps. I look around excitedly, expecting a paunchy bald guy to appear out of nowhere. That’s not what happens.

Lance rounds the front of the vehicle, waving and grinning sheepishly. I drop my head and give it a shake. Of course I insulted his choice of vehicle—well, him, actually.

I start my car, but the sound of my engine is drowned out by the Hummer revving to life. The thing is a beast. Lance’s passenger window rolls down, and his face appears in the dark space.

He waits until I do the same before yelling over the rumble of his engine. “I swear I’m not compensating.”

“Suuure,” I reply. “I’d tell you to drive safe, but since you have a tank…” I shift into gear and pull out, waving again as I pass him.

I think he waves back, but his windows are tinted, and all I can see is light reflected off the windshield. Lance follows behind me and turns in the same direction I do. He leaves lots of space between us, maybe respecting the fact that he could drive over my car if he were impatient enough. My little Mini looks like something his vehicle expelled from the exhaust pipe.

My phone keeps buzzing in my purse. It’s likely April, since we’re supposed to meet up and I’m way later than I thought I’d be. Part of me wants to talk to her about Lance, and the other part—the part that remembers exactly what it was like to get burned by him last year—doesn’t want to rehash that experience any more. I’ve already done it once today. For an hour. While I massaged his glutes.

I rummage through my purse when I come to a stoplight, digging out my phone. Before I can check my messages, a honk comes from my right. It startles me, and my phone lands on the floor of the passenger side, bouncing out of reach. I look over to find Lance’s Hummer beside me, his window down again.