person who’s disappointed I don’t get to ride in the Lamborghini again.
I’m unrecognizable.
Opening the passenger side door for me, Talent’s lips are terse, and his stare is grave. A better person would be intimidated by his obvious unhappiness, but apparently, I’m the type of person who snubs her nose at a BMW because she’d rather have a life-altering argument in a Lamborghini.
“Lighten up, Ridge. This is only the unraveling of your life,” I say, lowering myself into the seat. He tries to close the door for me, but I grab the handle and slam it closed myself.
The valet driver who drove the car up watches our exchange and doesn’t stick around long enough for a tip, giving Talent plenty of room to get into the car unbothered. Let that slice of gossip make its way through the building, too. We may as well give them something good to talk about.
“Take me home,” I say as he merges into traffic.
Talent drives with one hand on the steering wheel, and he rests his other elbow on the center console with so much style and swag, I nearly demand he forget my first request and invite him to take me to his bed instead. But now that he has me trapped in his car, he keeps his eyes on the road and ignores me entirely.
We’re not heading in the direction of my apartment or his, and I ask, “Where are we going, Talent?”
“I’m hungry,” he answers in a short manner. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
We go through the McDonald’s drive-thru and order enough food to eat our feelings. I haven’t had chicken nuggets in years and dig for my ten-piece after Talent drops the bag of hot food in my lap.
“I said I wanted honey and mustard. Not honey mustard.” I hold up the tiny cups of honey mustard like they’re live grenades.
We’re too far from the drive-thru window to go back, but still in the McDonald’s parking lot to remedy this travesty. Talent jams his straw into his large Coke, groans, and pulls the car around to the front of the restaurant. He takes the handful of honey mustard from me and opens the car door, kicking it open wide only for it to rebound shut quickly on his leg. He comes back with honey, mustard, and a vanilla soft-serve cone.
“For your troubles,” he says.
We smile.
We can’t help it.
And we share the ice cream cone on our drive to the beach.
The parking lot is relatively empty, and the weather is perfect as the afternoon heat succumbs to a crisp evening. Talent gathers our bags of food, and I unbuckle my shoes before getting out of the car on bare feet. He pops the trunk open and asks me to grab the blanket all beach city dwellers with cars keep on hand for impromptu beach trips.
A black slip midi dress isn’t the best outfit to wear to the beach, especially when I don’t have underwear on beneath, but Talent softened me up with the vanilla cone and I let it go. Besides, I’ll follow those chicken nuggets anywhere dressed in anything.
Talent takes off his jacket and lays it down, setting our food on top of it before taking the blanket from me. He shakes the blanket open, letting the sea breeze unfold it midair before gently spreading it over the sand for us to sit. He’s ridiculous in his Armani slacks and leather shoes now covered in sand, and I can’t help but think this is a side of Talent not many people get to see. And here I am, seeing it.
He shoves ten French fries into his mouth at a time and can eat a double cheeseburger in three bites, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life.
“What’s wrong with the mustard?” he asks, nodding toward the small pile of unopened mustard packets.
Observing them apologetically, I admit, “I like honey and barbecue sauce. Not honey and mustard.”
With a full stomach and sugar high from the packets of honey and my half of the vanilla cone, I lie back on the blanket and bury my toes in the warm sand. Talent leans on his elbow beside me, and it’s not lost on us that we’re good at distracting ourselves from heavy conversation, be it with sex, alcohol, or greasy food. It’s a habit that can go bad fast.
“Talent.” I cup my hand over my eyes to block out the sun and to see his answering expression. “We don’t