Page 7 of You, Again
My reluctant smile reformed into a cynical twist. “Groovy, Vin. Just groovy.”
“I heard you took over the diner. Still serving killer fries?”
“Of course.”
“And shakes? Please tell me you still have the double-chocolate-chip shake on the menu,” he pleaded, reminding me of the teenager who used to save the clover marshmallows from Lucky Charms cereal to eat last.
“We do.”
“Cool. I’ll be by sometime. I opened a couple of burger joints in Seattle that have done pretty well. Blue Line Burger. I was thinking of expanding.”
“Here?”
“Or somewhere nearby. Let’s talk. Maybe we can help each other out.”
“Right.” I snorted derisively.
Vinnie frowned, scratching his temple thoughtfully. “I’m sensing animosity.”
“I was going for ambivalence.”
“Ambivalence,” he repeated, thumping his chest. “Toward me? Impossible.”
Damn it.That was truer than I wanted to admit. Time to get going.
“Ronnie’s waiting for you. Later.”
He grabbed my elbow before I could stalk away. “Gimme a hint. What’s he up to?”
Vin turned to the rink that had served as a second home to most everyone in town. Including this former NHL superstar.
I shook out of his grasp. “Find out yourself. Oh, and Vin…”
“Yeah?”
“If you fuck him over, I will come for you.”
Hey, for a guy who’d never been known for a menacing glare, I thought I’d pulled it off pretty damn well. I braced myself for one of those adolescent comebacks Vinnie had delivered like a boss when we were kids. He’d always been able to make “Oooh, now I’m scared” sound like a Shakespearean quip.
Whatever.
I’d said what I’d needed to and drawn the proverbial line in the sand. With any luck, our paths wouldn’t cross much during his hopefully very short stay.
Now I just had to figure out how to get into my truck without looking like an idiot.
I studied the two-inch gap the Jeep owner had left between us with a sigh before rounding my vehicle and opening the passenger side door. A blast of heat engulfed my face like a furnace. Fuck me, the faux-leather interior scorched the skin my shorts didn’t cover on my lower thighs and the back of my knees.
I leaned over to insert the fob in the ignition and rolled down the windows for a little relief. Then I began the tedious contortion-like maneuvering necessary to hike my long legs over the console and behind the steering wheel. Not pretty.
Without skates on my feet, I was kind of a klutz, so it was no surprise that I kneed the horn and that sudden noise startled me into jostling the volume on the “Out and Proud, Give it to Me Loud” playlist my best friend in LA had personally curated for me. Gloria Gaynor’s survival anthem rocked my truck at ear-splitting decibels worthy of a gaggle of teens screaming their hearts out at a Harry Styles concert.
Holy fuck.I couldn’t get in my seat fast enough to adjust the sound. And when I finally did, my thighs sizzled on the hot upholstery.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I winced in pain and punched the Off button on the stereo, slumping in relief, my heart pounding against my chest as a welcome silence descended.
Well, not total silence.