Page 4 of Truth or More Truth (Throwback RomComs #3)

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. . .

W hy did I say that? Why am I flirting with Bobby Jacobs?

I hate him! Well, maybe I don’t hate him, but I’m not exactly a fan, even if he looks even better in his dark-wash jeans and camel-colored cashmere sweater than he does in a suit.

But I do hate the look he’s giving me right now, informing me he knows I’m checking him out and like what I see.

I stifle a groan. “I mean, I know you live in L.A., so I guess I assumed you’re not into winter sports. Where do you ski?”

“Usually Tahoe. Sometimes Vail. Do you ski?” he asks.

“My grandparents had a cabin in Vermont.” Well, they called it a cabin.

Most people would call it a chalet. “When I was a kid, we went there every winter to ski. My parents sold the place after my grandparents passed. I went skiing in Aspen with friends a few times during college, but that was more about partying than skiing, if I’m honest.”

The shuttle arrives, and Bobby carries all our bags on and slots them onto the luggage rack before taking a seat beside me.

We’re silent on the ride to the long-term parking lot, and I try not to focus on the fact that his shoulder is pressed up against mine.

There’s nobody on his other side, so I’m not sure why he won’t shift over, but I’m not about to ask him to do so.

Undoubtedly he’d make a big deal out of it.

When we reach our stop, he gathers my luggage again and follows me through the lot until we reach my car.

“This is your car?” he asks as I unlock the trunk of my blue, two-door Honda Prelude.

I whirl toward him. “What’s wrong with my car?”

Bobby’s eyes widen. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with your car.”

“You got that right,” I mutter as I grab for my suitcase.

“I’ve got it.” Bobby snatches the suitcase out from under me, and before I know it, all my bags are in the trunk.

I’m braced to argue with him on who’s going to drive—even though it’s my car—but he rounds the car to the passenger side and waits for me to get in and unlock his door. Even more shocking, after he gets in and adjusts the seat, he puts on his seatbelt.

“I didn’t take you for a seatbelt kind of guy,” I state.

He angles his body toward me as much as he can in the confining space. He’s not an overly large man—I’d estimate six feet and maybe 180 pounds—but my small car definitely won’t be comfortable for him on this long trip. Not that I feel sorry for him.

He holds one finger up. “One, it’s the law now, and I’m a law-abiding citizen. And two,” another finger goes up, “you don’t take me for someone who values their own life?”

I roll my eyes and reach into the backseat, grab my road atlas, and plop it on his lap. “Shut up and tell me where to go.”

“Hmm.” He taps a finger on his lips. “Which part of that order should I obey—the shutting up part or the talking part? It’ll be hard to do both.”

“Bobby Jacobs, I swear if you don’t stop irritating me, I’m dropping you off at the bus station.” I purse my lips. “Also, I need to know your middle name, so I can use it when I’m extra irritated.”

“It’s Ebenezer,” he deadpans.

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Nice one.”

“Honest.”

I shift the car into reverse to leave the parking spot. “Still don’t believe you. ”

“Believe whatever you want.” He pauses. “But maybe it’s Sebastian.”

“Robert Sebastian Jacobs?” I huff out a laugh. “I don’t think so. I’m going to call you Bobby Joe.”

“Why would you call me that?”

“Because it’ll annoy you.”

“You’re right about that,” he mutters.

I back out of the parking space. “Can you just be nice to me for once?”

Bobby’s mouth drops open. “I’m always nice to you.”

“Tell me one time you’ve been nice to me,” I demand.

When he doesn’t answer within three seconds, I say, “Exactly. Now tell me where to go, Bobby Joe, and be quick about it.”

If I don’t murder this man by the time we get out of the Chicago metro area, I’ll deserve a medal. We’re only thirty minutes in, and my hands are itching to clamp around his neck. I promise I’m not a murderer, just an overly annoyed woman.

“Stop with the commentary on my driving skills,” I say through clenched teeth, “and tell me what lane I should be in.”

“The right lane.”

“The right lane? Bobby Joe, if you’re messing with me, I’ll pull this car over and make you walk to Arkansas. Fifteen seconds ago you were deciding whether I should be in the left or middle lane.”

“That’s before I looked at your gas gauge.”

I glance down at the gauge and groan. How long has the “low gas” light been on? I flip on my blinker and ease into the right lane so I can take the next exit. A quick glance ahead informs me there’s a gas station just off the interstate.

When I pull up to the pump at the self-service station, I wonder if Bobby will be a gentleman and offer to pump the gas for me.

“I need to make a phone call,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “You need anything from inside? Drink? Snacks? ”

“Yeah, but I’m picky about my road-trip snacks, and I don’t trust you to not mess up my order. I’ll get them when I go in to pay.”

“I’m paying for the gas,” he declares.

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s your car we’re putting a thousand-plus miles on. It’s only fair that I pay for the gas.”

What he says makes sense, so I agree, even though I’m annoyed about it for no good reason.

I pump the gas and then grab my purse to go inside and pick out my snacks.

When I pass Bobby on the payphone outside the door, I overhear him saying, “Baby, I’m sorry I haven’t been there, but I’ll see you when I get home in a few days.

” I wonder if he’s talking to the same woman he secretly called at Wendy and Randall’s wedding. Knowing him, probably not.

A few minutes later, I can feel Bobby watching over my shoulder as I pay for my snacks and he waits to pay for the gas.

I silently dare him to comment on my array of candy, chips, pre-packaged baked goods, and drinks.

When he doesn’t, I feel an odd sense of loss.

Instead of waiting for him to pay, I return to the car, dig my Whitney Houston Whitney cassette out of the glovebox, and pop it into the tape player, because I’m one thousand percent sure Bobby is not a Whitney fan.

Then I start munching my way through a bag of Cheetos.

“Cheetos?” he says as he slides into his seat. “That seems like the absolute worst choice of snack for the car.”

I roll my eyes. He sounds like a dad.

“Why is that, Bobby Joe?” I ask, as I purposely swipe orange dust onto the radio knobs, ensuring he won’t be changing the volume anytime soon. “They’re delicious.”

“That is disgusting.”

I lick my fingers before shifting the car into drive. “My car, my rules.”

Why am I acting like a child? I never act like this. The man brings out the worst in me. Considering our ten-year age difference, you’d think I’d try to act more mature around him, not less.

“You have rules about Cheetos?” he asks .

I glance over and catch the grin he’s trying to hide.

“I do.” I give him a haughty look. “I can eat them anytime, anywhere, anyhow.”

“Any how? Is that a word? And is there more than one way to eat a Cheeto?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” What in the world is wrong with me?

“I would, actually.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you or show you. You’re just going to have to imagine all the ways I could devour Cheetos.”

Melissa, shut your trap. You sound like an idiot.

“I think I will.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Is he trying to flirt with me?