What If (If Only.... #2)(2)

I’m already ahead of schedule, having given myself an hour to make a thirty-minute drive. I don’t blame my sister. If she hadn’t sent the text, Mom would have had Jen or Megan do it. Besides, once they see my face, the time of my arrival won’t mean shit. Like I said—they can depend on me to be there, but the state I’m in when I show up is anyone’s guess.

I laugh at the thought of my father’s first glimpse of the swollen, purple skin beneath my right eye. Ouch. I wince, the laughter aggravating the still-developing bruise. I knew the girl was at the bar with someone, but she was a willing participant, which means she used me as much as I used her. Too drunk to truly feel the crack of her boyfriend’s fist against my face, I retaliated only for show, leaving the * with a split lip and me with a split knuckle…and my face the picture-perfect image of the would-be mayor’s son. Sometimes it’s nice to feel something other than numb, and this morning I’m definitely feeling something.

I laugh again when my eyes fall to the fading ink on my hand. She still gave me her number.

At the next light I grab the water bottle from my drink holder and down the whole thing along with a few ibuprofen tablets. I may not be able to change the way I look, but I can at least get rid of the hangover and increasing pain. Coffee. I have time for coffee. I flip on my turn signal to head a couple miles off-course, step on the gas, and then just as quickly pause when I see her—a girl on the sidewalk, walking backward, thumb in the air.

Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles. It’s not like she’s the first girl to smile at me, but shit this girl is beautiful. Even with an intersection between us, that much I can tell. Instead of turning, I cross the intersection, flipping on my hazards as I pull over to the curb and open my window.

“Are you…hitchhiking? For real?”

She looks at me, eyes narrowed. “My thumb in the air didn’t give it away?” She takes a step closer. “Is that what the last hitchhiker did to you? If so, I can understand your hesitation. I’m pretty fierce.”

I smirk, followed by another wince. Shit. Her sarcasm doesn’t faze me. But her auburn hair hanging in two long braids, freckles, and pale pink lips, those do. I’m officially fazed. “But you’re in suburban Minneapolis. And it’s damn freezing. Who hitches a ride out here?”

Better yet, who stops for a hitchhiker in the ‘burbs?

When they look like this girl, I sure as hell do.

She steps off the curb and walks right up to my passenger door. Her bravado falters as she struggles to rest her elbows on the window’s frame, my truck taller than she seems to have anticipated. I smile but bite back the gesture as she regains her composure.

“It’s thirty-five degrees in November, and I have two miles to go. Are you going to give me a ride or not?”

Her hands, covered in fingerless gloves, tap in anticipation against the door.

“So you’re just going to get in the car with a complete stranger?”

She cocks her head to the side and fixes her gaze on me, then smiles.

“I trust your eyes.”

I arch a brow. Shit. Gotta remember that hurts.

“Probably the most trust a girl has ever given me.” I smirk.

She isn’t fazed. “Bruised or not, you can tell a lot about a person from his eyes. Plus…” She leans in through the window. “It’s warm in here, and I’m still standing outside.”

I glance at the immaculate interior of my Ford Expedition, at the buttons on the center console indicating the warmers for my leather seats. Then I look back and watch her eyes roll. Disdain? Impatience? Probably both.

“Crap,” I say under my breath but not quietly enough.

“Excuse me?” asks this annoyed Pippi Longstocking hitching a two-mile ride. And there’s something in that voice, in her I’ve-got-you-figured-out expression, that should warn me not to mess with her. But I give my judgment the morning off. Hell, I’m pretty sure I gave it extended vacation leave.

“I was just imagining your inner monologue. Can’t believe this * is making me wait in the cold while he cranks up his heated seats. Something like that?”

“Something like that.” But I see it; she’s fighting the upturned corners of her mouth.

I unlock the door and reach across to open the passenger side.

“Ahhh, so Pippi knows how to smile.”

She doesn’t respond at first, her quick wit suddenly lost in her faraway green eyes. When she clicks her seat belt secure, the sound jolts her back from wherever she was, and she turns to me. “Nope. It’s the eye,” she says. “Must be distorting your vision.”

“Ouch. Pretty harsh for the guy who just saved you from the cold.”

“I don’t need saving.” Her words are calm, but her eyes are now focused and sharp. “But thanks. For the ride. I didn’t know it was going to be this cold out today.”

Then without warning, she extends her left hand toward my face, but I don’t flinch when she rests it against my cheek. Her thumb sweeps across the swollen skin under my eye, and I suck in a breath, partly from the tenderness of the bruise and partly from the tenderness of her touch. My eyes fall closed when she doesn’t pull away, and I hear her breathe in.

“This is new?” she asks, and I open my eyes and nod, impressed she didn’t ask the obvious question: Does it hurt? Her gaze moves from my face to the broken skin on my hand, and she chews on her lip. “Let me guess. I should see the other guy?”