What If (If Only.... #2)(4)

Nice change of subject, Pippi.

I open my mouth to speak but first pet the dashboard lovingly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. She didn’t mean it. You’re not a beast.” I glance at my passenger who doesn’t share my affection for the vehicle that saved her from the early November chill. “No. It’s not a hybrid. It’s a car that gets me through Minnesota winters. Why?”

She taps her index finger on her pursed lips. “What you must spend on gas, not to mention your carbon footprint—”

“Uh, says the girl who just tossed a photograph, probably loaded with less-than-environmentally-friendly chemicals, out my window,” I interrupt. “Plus, I’m giving you a ride, and you trash-talk my girl? Yes, cars do have gender, and this one is most certainly a girl. My girl. Why are you betraying the beast that’s getting you where you need to go?”

I fix my stare straight ahead and blow out a long breath. I never have to defend my truck. Everyone loves the truck. Girls love the truck, especially how roomy it can be reclining on a summer night, stars shining through the moon roof, and yeah. No one’s ever complained about gas mileage or carbon footprint. In fact, I’ve heard nothing but praise. Plus, I can rattle off a list of people grateful for my beast towing their sedans from snowy ditches.

Her eyes grow distant. “My grandfather was a mechanic. He hated SUVs. Some things you don’t forget.”

Her voice bears an echo of sadness, and a small part of me wants to ask about her grandfather while the rest of me says, Dude, get her where she needs to go before you’re late. I shake my head. Maybe I’m more hung over than I think.

“I didn’t get your name,” I say as we pull into the coffee shop’s crowded parking lot. “I’m Griffin.” I extend a hand to shake, the gesture awkward and unfamiliar now that she’s already had her palm on my face.

When she doesn’t reciprocate, I lean back and release my seat belt.

“What are you doing?” she asks, alarm taking over her features for the first time since she stepped into the car of a stranger.

I rub the back of my neck, brows raised. “Getting coffee?” The words are meant to come out as a statement, but the tenseness in her shoulders stops me in my tracks.

She lets out a breath and smiles, the expression forced. “My treat,” she says. “For giving me the lift. How do you take it?”

“Double-shot cappuccino.”

“I’ll be right back, Fancy Pants.” And she’s out of the truck before I can protest.

Fancy Pants? Fuck. I look at my pressed khakis, the ironed-in crease down the middle, the freaking neon sign of who I am no matter how much I ignore it. I’m the same * I was before Scotland. What did Jordan call me? A man-whore with heart. I’ve done a good job since my return to lose the last part of that phrase. But at the end of this year I’ll be exactly who my parents raised me to be, Griffin Reed Jr., MBA-bound and tied to the plan they set in place for me when I was a freshman in high school.

But I’m not that guy yet.

And for some reason I give a shit that this girl knows me for two minutes and thinks she has me pegged.

I watch her through the glass door, this stranger who has challenged me since stepping up to my car, her red braids spilling over her shoulders. She strides to the counter, letting her coat fall loose as she orders. I notice the exposed ivory skin of her neck, and wonder if it sports the same freckles that fall across her nose and cheeks.

I shift in my seat, forcing my thoughts from her possibly freckled, possibly not freckled neck. Grandma Reed. My third-grade teacher. My niece quizzing me on her thorough knowledge of Harry Potter. Exhale. Good. Crisis averted. For safe measure, I close my eyes, but my mind starts to recreate her image.

Tap. Tap.

I jump to find her standing outside my window. I try to open it, forgetting I turned the car off, forgetting pretty much everything except what this girl is doing to me in the space of several minutes.

My hand fumbles with the key until the car is in accessory mode, the window finally obeying.

She reads the side of the to-go cup, confirming my order.

“Double cappuccino,” she says with confidence, handing the drink to me.

“Thanks,” I say, transfixed by her eyes, more hazel now than green. Fucking hell.

“I got you this, too.” She raises her other hand, a plastic bag full of ice dangling from her fist. “Alternate temperatures. After about ten minutes of this, switch to a warm compress.”

She hands me the bag.

“Are you pre-med or something?” I ask.

Her head shakes in response. “I’ve got…friends in the medical field. They’ve taught me some tricks of the trade.”

“Where’s your drink?” I ask.

Pippi looks over her shoulder into the shop and waves before turning back to me. “Inside.”

“Oh.” I nod. “Do I at least get your name before I leave?”

She shakes her head and then motions at my face. “You’ve got stuff to deal with, Fancy Pants,” she says, backing away.

“It’s Griffin.” I groan, defeated, the rejection both new and familiar, and I’m compelled to keep her at my window for as long as possible. “Will I see you again, Pippi?” I ask, and she smiles, her gaze knowing.

“Probably not,” she teases, and something in my gut sinks. Then she reaches into her bag and retrieves the camera, snapping my picture once again without warning. “But I’ll remember you, Fancy—”