Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“It’s five forty-five.”
“Exactly my point,” he said. “I don’t need more time with you than I already have.”
She reminded herself that what he’d said was true: He didn’t have to be nice. He only had to get her closer to Atlanta. “Who were you talking to?” she asked.
“My car. Max.”
“You named your car?” she asked, delighted. “We named our tractor!”
Fitz had that look he’d worn around her a few times already, the one that said he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to find something funny. “Sure, I’ll bite. What’s your tractor named, Ren?”
Her chest tightened, and she wished she hadn’t brought it up. “Steve.”
“Steve, huh? Wow. Cool.” Fitz walked to the curb for his bag.
Ren swallowed, following him. “Yeah, Gloria—uh, my mom, she named it after my dad.” She could hear how the word dad came out thin, like her throat didn’t want to let it out. For the thousandth time, Ren felt heavily aware that the man she’d been raised to think was her biological father might not be, after all.
Grief felt like a hand wrapped around her windpipe, and she didn’t know what to do but shove the coffee toward Fitz. “Here. I got you this.”
“What is it?”
She pointed to the coffee shop back over her shoulder. “From there. It’s their special today. White chocolate something. It’s to thank you for taking me.”
“I’m not taking you because I chose to.”
“I know. But I feel bad about blackmailing you.”
“Well, by all means, a coffee makes things right.” He set his duffel down to take the coffee, but before he could take a sip, Ren grabbed his forearm and pointed to the cup. “No, no, look first! She made a leaf with the foam!”
Fitz pried off the lid, significantly less impressed than she’d been, saying flatly, “Wow, look at that.” He took a sip, his entire body jerking in a shudder. “Oh, my God that’s sweet.”
Ren laughed. “It was four whole dollars, so maybe she wanted to give you your money’s worth of sugar?”
With a playful smirk, Fitz opened his mouth to say something and then snapped it closed, reaching with his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Look, Sweden. Let’s—let’s just go over the ground rules.”
She was ready for this. “Rule one: You’re in charge. Rule two: No saluting or bowing.”
“Right,” he said, “and no—”
“Oh!” She remembered something she wanted to show him first and dug into her backpack. “I made sandwiches!”
Fitz’s lip curled, and she followed his gaze to the seven plastic-wrapped PB&Js she’d made this afternoon at the dining hall. “They’re a little smashed,” she admitted, “but I make them every Monday for the week, and trust me, they get better over time. If we ration it, this could get us to Nashville.”
Delicately, he plucked the bundle from her hand and dropped it in a trash can near the curb. “No.”
“Why’d you do that?” She walked to the can and peered in, but they’d already been swallowed by the random mess of banana peels, coffee cups, and other detritus. “What are we going to ea—”
“Rule three: No eating in the car.”
“Isn’t that what road trips are for? Snacking and driving and singing—”
“Rules four through six, I’m in charge of the music, no singing, and no being annoying.”
Her mood dropped. “These aren’t very fun rules.”
Fitz barked out a laugh. “You’re blackmailing me. I’m not going to make this trip enjoyable.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I told you I feel bad about that. It’s why I got you the coffee.”
“Rule seven,” he said, “no backseat driving.”
Ren bent to look in the back window. “I have to sit in the backseat?”
“Rule eight.” He ignored her and placed a gentle hand on the top of the car. “Treat Max with respect. Rule nine: No talking.”
“At all?”
“Remember rule six?”
Deflated, she nodded. “No being annoying.”
“What are you even going to Nashville for?” he asked. “If it’s so important that you’re willing to extort me, why not just take a bus or, better yet, fly?”
She lifted her chin, steeling herself against the wave of nausea that rolled through her. “It’s none of your business.”
“Well, fine, but here’s rule ten: I hope you have a way home, because I’m not sure what day I’m leaving to head back, and I’m not working around your schedule.”
Her brain hiccupped. She hadn’t even figured out how she was getting to Atlanta from Nashville, let alone that she might have to find her way back to Spokane afterward.
Perhaps sensing something in her reaction, Fitz bent to catch her eye. “You do have a plan for how you’re getting home, right?”
She nodded vaguely.
He leaned closer. “Sweden?”
“Yes,” she said with more conviction. It was too late to turn back now. “I do—or, at least, I will by the time I need to come back. But either way, it’s not your problem.”