“Mmm. More sleep.”
“Okay, but…the paparazzi will be here in an hour, and unless you want to have Ramen noodles for breakfast, we should sneak out now.”
The bed was so soft. He curled a hand around the silk skin of her thigh and closed his eyes. “Ramen is great.”
When she slapped his arm, Max’s eyes popped wide-open. “Get up. I used up a lot of calories last night. And this morning. I want blueberry pancakes.”
His stomach growled in response, and Max aimed a glare at his traitorous belly.
“Come on. Shower with me?”
Well, then. “Is your shower big enough for two?”
“Nah. I was just trying to trick you into getting up.”
“Heartless witch.” But heartless or not, M
ax decided he’d do anything to make her happy, even stumble out of bed before dawn. They showered and dressed, then Max stopped to lecture her about not having a smoke detector in her bedroom before they tiptoed down the stairs and opened the ancient wooden garage door. It was Sunday morning, and not another soul seemed to be awake. Relieved, Max started to open the passenger-side door, but Chloe shook her head.
“Wrong side. You sit over here.”
He walked around the white SUV. “You want me to drive?”
“Nope,” she said as she slid into her seat and slammed the door.
Max opened his door with a frown. “If you…What the hell?” There was no steering wheel, no gas pedal.
“My dad got it at auction from the post office for a steal.”
“A steal? The steering wheel’s on the wrong side!”
“It’s a mail carrier truck. On rural routes, the driver can stick mail in the boxes without having to get out of the truck.”
“But…” Max registered some vague memory of seeing an arm reach out of a truck to stick a stack of envelopes in a mailbox. “But it’s on the wrong side.”
“Come on. I’m hungry.”
Frowning, he sat down and buckled his seat belt, his head buzzing with the wrongness of the layout. He kept frowning even when Chloe leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.
She backed out of the garage, then hopped out to lower the door, the rising sun sneaking through the houses to light her face in a rosy glow. But Max barely noticed this; he was too busy feeling nervous.
He was okay when she eased the truck down the narrow alley and onto the tree-shaded side street, but before he could prepare himself, Chloe turned onto the wider street that fronted the house, and soon they were driving way too fast for Max’s taste. He clutched the handle of the door, totally disoriented by the vehicle’s mixed-up layout. His foot pressed against a phantom brake pedal, toes straining so hard that they hurt. He was in the position of responsibility, the driver’s seat, and there was nothing he could do to control the truck.
“How far is the restaurant?” he managed to ask past his clenched jaw.
“About five minutes. Why?”
“I don’t like this.”
“We’ll sneak back into my place from the front.”
“No, I mean, I don’t like this.”
Chloe finally seemed to register that he was digging his nails into the upholstery. “What’s wrong?”
“This truck is wrong!”
“Whoa. Are you freaking out?”