Page 20 of Almost Enough

His smirk is faint, but it’s there. “Don’t push your luck, Red.”

That nickname shouldn’t make my heart do a dumb little somersault, but it does. And I’m obviously going to push it.

“Red?” I echo, tilting my head. “Is that a thing now? Are we doing nicknames?”

“Slipped out.”

I tuck my legs under me, facing him with newfound energy. “I like it. Better than ‘hey, you’ or complete silence followed by a grunt.”

His hands flex on the steering wheel, and I find myself tracking the movement, the way his forearms tense and release. The man has forearms that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.

“So,” I continue, emboldened by this minuscule breakthrough, “if I’m Red, what do I call you? Grumpy? Broody? Silent Bob?”

“Beau works fine.”

“Boring,” I declare. “I’m thinking of something with more pizzaz. Like… Stonewall. Or Mr. Serious. Or⁠—”

“Beau,” he repeats, but there’s that twitch at the corner of his mouth again.

“Fine,” I sigh. “But only because you remembered how I take my coffee.”

I catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you this grumpy with everyone, or do I get special treatment?” I ask, propping my chin on my hand and watching his profile. “Is this, like, your signature move?”

“Don’t have a signature,” he says.

I bark a laugh. “Liar. Your signature move is monosyllabic answers followed by a long, meaningful silence. Very mysterious. Ladies must love it.”

“Works on some,” he deadpans.

“Wow! He admits to having a love life. Tell me more.”

“Not much to tell.” He glances over. “They don’t stick.”

I want to say, me neither, but I bite my tongue. Instead, I reach for the glovebox and root around until I find a highlighter and a stack of gas station receipts.

“Alright. We’re playing a game,” I announce, uncapping the highlighter with my teeth. “Every answer you give that’s less than five words, I get to ask a follow-up of my choosing. No refusals.”

He looks at me like I’m insane, so I press forward. “Well?”

“Sounds rigged.”

“Absolutely. This is my coping mechanism for road trip boredom, so unless you want to listen to three hours of Alanis Morissette karaoke⁠—”

“Fine,” he cuts in. “But you have to give one-word answers when I ask a question.”

I clap once, triumphant. “Oh, I like it. This is going to be fun. Okay, first question. What’s your favorite swear word? And use it in a sentence.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Why the fuck are we doing this?”

I count the words on my fingers. “Damn. Seven words? Nice. Your turn.”

He doesn’t skip a beat. “Worst date?”

The hurricane. “October.”

Damn, he’s good. I so want to go into the details on that one. I didn’t realize how much effort it would take to speak one word at a time.

“Let’s see… What’s your favorite color?”