Page 69 of These White Lies

Elizabeth doesn’t look up from her phone. “Thank you.”

Another thirty minutes and she starts to shift, little restless movements that don’t match her usual composure. She tilts her phone, and squints. I glance over when she cracks the window and draws in a long careful breath. The tightness at the corners of her eyes and her pallor give her away.

“You good?”

“Yup,” she says through her teeth.

I can’t help the grin that tugs at my mouth at how mad she looks about being motion sick. Like she’s furious her body isn’t cooperating with her work schedule.

“You’re not going to puke in my car, are you?”

She glares at me. “No.”

“You sure? I’ve got a tactical bag back there, but it’s not rated for bodily fluids. Just looking out for my leather seats.”

“I hate you.” She sucks in another breath and turns toward the window, forehead against the glass, her phone still in her hand.

“Look out the windshield. It’ll help.”

“I’m looking out the window.”

“No, you’re not. You’re staring at your phone. You need the horizon. Horizon good. Phone bad.”

“Thanks for the third-grade health tip, Doctor Worthington.”

“I do what I can.” I grin at the road.

She shifts again, adjusts the vent, cracks the window wider. Elizabeth is so stubborn she can’t even admit she’s suffering.

“Want me to stop?” She doesn’t answer right away, so I add lightly, “We could play the license plate game. Or I-Spy? That’s always a crowd-pleaser.”

I’m a little surprised I’m not bleeding from the side-eye she’s sending me, but she does set her phone down to fire back. “Do you make all your clients suffer this much, or am I just special?”

“You’re special,” I say, without missing a beat.

This earns me a tight exhale that might be a laugh. I reach over and punch a button on the dash, and music fills the SUV.

She blinks, recognizing the tune immediately, and looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head.

“Don’t judge,” I warn.

“I’m not. I just didn’t pegyoufor a Swiftie.”

“My sister made me a playlist once,” I admit. “It’s catchy as hell, and I’m not ashamed. Honestly, there’s something wrong with you if you don’t like Taylor Swift.”

She smirks. “I never said I didn’t like her music. I went to her concert last year when she was in Atlanta.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Who’d you go with?”

There’s a long pause. I glance over to see her staring straight ahead. “No one. I went by myself.”

“That’s unusual.”

“It was fin—really nice. Everyone was really welcoming, and when they saw I was alone, the group near me made sure I felt included.”