Hate to Date You (Dating #4) - Monica Murphy Page 0,25
front.” Grace pushes back her chair and stands, then grabs hold of a cane I didn’t notice before. “Let’s go,” she calls as she slowly makes her way to the front door.
“If you want to leave, you can,” Stella says as we both stand. “You probably have better things to do than humor my grandmother.”
“I don’t mind,” I say truthfully.
“She’s very pushy,” Stella says.
“Yeah, she’s pretty feisty,” I say as we start for the door, falling into sync as we walk beside each other.
We tend to do that, Stella and I.
“Some say I’m just like her.” Stella steals a glance my way. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Take it as a compliment.” I hold the door open for her just as a loud, musical horn sounds.
Stella makes a face. “That’s my grandmother’s car.” She waves a hand toward the vintage white Mercedes sedan parked directly in front of Sweet Dreams. “If you’re going with us, you get to ride in the front seat.”
“Deal.” I place my hand on her arm, stopping her before we get too close to the vehicle. Little sparks seem to fly from my fingertips into her skin and I immediately stop touching her. “Are you okay with me going? I’ll back off if you want me to. I know you want your space—from me.”
“I’m okay with it,” Stella says with a little shrug. But her expression turns fierce. “Just please don’t mention anything about us living together.”
“Oh. Right. I figured that was the case since you kicked me.”
“Sorry about that.” And she does actually appear sorry. “It’s just—no one in my family knows you’re my roommate.”
My mouth drops open. “Seriously? Your dad still works at Sweet Dreams, right?” He could catch me going up the stairs, coming down the stairs…
“He does, but only part time.” She shrugs helplessly. “And he never comes to my apartment. Says it’s too tiny.”
“Huh.” She’s not wrong there. “You aren’t afraid of him seeing me coming and going from the apartment?”
She chews on her lower lip. “He won’t notice. And I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone. They wouldn’t approve of me living with a man.”
How old is she again? “But there’s nothing going on. We’re just roomies.”
“Who slept together,” she adds.
I can’t help it when I say this. “There wasn’t much sleeping involved that night, Stella.”
Her cheeks turn crimson. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”
I’m about to say something else, but then the horn sounds again and I hear Graziella Ricci scream, “We don’t got all day!”
And with that, we pile into the car and head for Stella’s grandma’s house.
Ten
Stella
I should’ve warned Carter about my nonna’s driving.
But we didn’t have time and I wasn’t about to insult her in front of Carter, so I kept my mouth shut and let Nonna’s, um, skills speak for themselves.
The speed limit in downtown Carmel doesn’t go much above thirty, but somehow my lovely grandmother makes it seem like she’s Mario Andretti on steroids.
(The only reason I know about Mario is because he was her favorite racecar driver back in the day. Merely because of his Italian name.)
Anyway, the tires squeal as she goes around corners. She guns the engine when we’re only driving a one-mile stretch. She stomps on the brakes at stop signs, making us all jerk forward against our seatbelts. She even shakes her fist at a tourist pedestrian who jaywalks in front of her.
“Use the crosswalk, you heathen!” Nonna yells, the precious stones in her rings glittering in the sunlight.
I’m sitting in the back with my seatbelt strapped on tightly, going through my phone’s notifications, praying for the car ride to be over. I have a text from Caroline asking to have a get together at Tuscany for all of us later this week, and that fills me with unease. A repeat night of the time Carter and I had mind-blowing sex?
Not too sure if that’s a good idea.
I shoot a glance in Carter’s direction and notice that he appears petrified. His eyes are wide and his arms are stretched out in front of him as he clutches the dashboard for dear life. Poor dude. Nonna’s driving isn’t for the faint of heart. By the time we’re pulling into the gravel driveway in front of her house, I swear I witness him breathe a sigh of relief and whisper thank you toward the sky.
Riding with a crazed eighty-five-year-old behind the wheel could turn a person to religion real quick.