and me swaying like seaweed to the sixties song is hilarious for my family. But to an outsider? I must have a death wish in the form of social suicide. But Sam grins so wide, I can’t regret one single word. I made Sam smile.
He smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Canada, that’s the best story ever. This is gonna be one hell of a trip. I need one messed-up family story every hour on the hour. That’s instead of paying for gas. Let me help you with your seat belt.”
He leans over me and grabs the buckle, that chest of his brushing the tender flesh of my recently scorched breast. I flinch and sink against the seat, the Hot Soup Incident suddenly all I can think about. The whole ride from Pahia, I was on the verge of tears. How stupid of me to think this trip would magically change me from a walking disaster to a normal nineteen-year-old. I don’t do normal. I doubt I ever will.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling back. He looks at my chest, then at my face.
Right. He heard about the incident. I bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling. All I want to do now is get out of this car and travel solo. I shouldn’t have caved at the sight of him. I should have stood my ground and walked off. On my own. Does saying he heard about the incident mean he saw the incident? It’s probably crisscrossed the world on networks and data bytes invading every electrical device operable. How can I sit here next to him if he saw that video?
He releases the buckle and wraps his large hand over mine, my fingers fisted at my side. “You okay, Nina?”
I turn my head away and watch an empty garbage bag blow down the street, surging up and down with the wind. “Did you see it?” I ask quietly.
“See what?”
The warmth builds between his hand and mine, making me light-headed. “The video of, you know—me. At lunch.” The bag spirals now, stuck in an air current.
“Yeah, I saw it.” His voice is a whisper, his hand leaving mine and coming to rest on the dip between my neck and shoulder. I’ve never had a guy touch me like this, with affection. He glides his thumb over my skin. Each stroke makes me ache to lean into his arms and bury my face in his shirt. This isn’t the same as my over-the-top fantasies. There’s no porno sound track. This is me wanting to find relief from my embarrassment in his soothing arms.
“Screw them,” Sam says, his voice suddenly closer, a slight edge to his words. “They’re not worth your time. You’re traveling with me now. The world’s coolest traveling partner.” The edge to his tone is gone, replaced with tenderness.
My lips tremble more. Where was this guy when I could barely go out in public for fear of being recognized? And still, here in New Zealand, some idiot can spot me, exposed breast and all, reminding me I’ll never escape the stigma of who I am. I keep my focus on the plastic bag so small in the distance I can barely make out its shape.
“I promise to do my best to keep you out of trouble,” he continues, “but if it finds you, and odds are from your track record it will, I swear I won’t memorialize it with my cell phone. I might laugh with you, but I won’t laugh at you.”
Now I really want to press my face into his shirt, and my porno music is back on. Full volume. It doesn’t seem humanly possible to be that sexy and caring and know exactly what to say. If he didn’t have a girlfriend, I might actually try to conquer my androphobia.
When I turn to thank him for talking me off the ledge, my breath hitches. So focused on that plastic bag, I didn’t realize how close his face was. Is. Holy heck, do I want to kiss his lips, jaw, neck. All of him. At once. My eyes drag up his features and finally crash into his. My brain practically detaches from the whiplash. My motor skills cease. The intensity of his darkening stare has heat pooling between my thighs at an alarming rate. This is like the fireworks earlier, but on steroids.
And this guy has a girlfriend.
That’s all it takes to break my trance, but there’s no subtlety in the breaking. As