Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(42)

“Since you’re my life coach now, do you have any suggestions to turn my day around?” I avert my gaze from the swell of Trevor’s rippling biceps as he attacks the island countertop with a steel sponge.

“Who says I’m your life coach?”

“Me. Obviously.”

He huffs. “That title comes with too much power. Besides, you do not want me giving you life advice. And even if I were qualified, you wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”

I pout. “I listen! Most of the time.”

“Sure you do.” He snickers. “Why don’t you declutter your room? Or better yet, burn the Ex-Files items of the dudes already crossed off the list?”

I perk up, perching my elbows on the back of the couch. It might be therapeutic to get rid of some of it. “Like burning them in a cleansing ritual? Would you help me?”

“No. I’m just kidding. I can’t support open fires. Why don’t you go sit in a coffee shop and talk to people?” he suggests.

“That’s a possibility. I do like coffee shop people. They’re always willing to spill the tea.” I drum my chin, considering. “What are you up to today? I tried texting Mel and Crystal, but they’re both busy.”

He cocks his thick brow. “Sounds like I’m your third choice.”

“You’d be my first choice if you didn’t give me so much attitude.” I give him a pointed look. “Picture this: We people-watch on the Common. Maybe go to the plant store for a new succulent. I could even buy you a snack, as long as it’s under five dollars. I’m broke.”

“Whoa, you’re really threatening me with outright fun,” he says dryly.

“Oh, come on. You need fresh air too. You’re going to poison us both with chemicals if you keep cleaning.”

He finally lifts his gaze from the countertop. “I’d love to freeze my nuts off with you outside, with no snacks, but I have to get to work soon.”

I point to our side-by-side schedules posted on the fridge. “You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

“I know. I have the food drive tonight.”

“Food drive?”

“We do it every year at the firehouse. Go around in the fire trucks and pick up donations around the city.”

That sounds heaps more appealing than lying on this couch, staring into the void. Then again, just about anything trumps that. “Can I come?” I ask meekly.

“You really want to come to work with me?” He squints, confused.

I barrel-roll off the couch and shimmy onto the stool in front of the island. “I swear, I won’t get in the way. Manual labor isn’t my strength, but—”

“We leave in an hour.”



* * *



? ? ?

MY TOES TAP in my boots as I endeavor to find a half-decent radio station. Trevor is laser focused on the snowy road. I’m tempted to prod him a little, ask what he’s thinking about, but I refrain, recalling how annoyed Seth used to get when I asked him that same question.

Curiosity aside, I’m hesitant to disturb the peaceful ambience. Trevor’s quiet brings me a sense of comfort. In the presence of anyone else, I usually feel an unspoken obligation to maintain lively conversation. But with Trevor, I don’t feel the pressure to do anything but just exist.

The silence can no longer be sustained when Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” filters through the speakers. Without permission, I crank the volume and belt the intro with abundant soul, church choir–style.

Trevor casts me a concerned side eye. His mouth is fixed in a stern line, but his knee is bouncing along with his fingers drumming the steering wheel. Even a macho dude like Trevor isn’t immune to the mood-boosting magic of a Shania Twain classic.

“You like this song,” I conclude, pleased with my discovery. “You’re tapping your knee to the beat.”

He purposely stops tapping like a miserable curmudgeon. “Nope.”

I reach over the console to shake his biceps. It’s more like a pathetic attempt at a shove, because my palm doesn’t come close to spanning that solid mass of muscle.

My head tilts like an eager puppy listening to the sound of kibble trickling into an empty dish. I expected him to defend this until the end times. “Can I ask—” I stop myself before he can cut in and say no. “Why do you hate when I ask if I can ask a question?”

“Because it freaks me out.”

“Why?”

“There’s no question more anxiety-inducing than Can I ask you a question? It could be anything. You could be asking me to divulge all my darkest secrets, or what I ate for lunch.”

“Nine times out of ten, I’m asking what you ate for lunch. Anyways, I was going to ask, why don’t you sing songs you like? You only hum your T. Swift shower song. Why not belt the lyrics too?”

He lets out a single laugh, checking over his shoulder before seamlessly merging into the lane. “Yeah, that’s not my thing, sweetheart.”

I ignore the way my stomach flips when he says sweetheart in that thick, sexy, I-just-woke-up voice. Logically, I know it’s pure sarcasm. But that has no bearing on my physiological response. I’m very aware of the many layers I’m wearing underneath my peacoat. My cream-colored, chunky-knit sweater suddenly scratches against my skin like an itchy heated blanket. When I reach to close the vent, Trevor notices and promptly turns the heat down two notches. He also turns off my seat warmer.