Screwed (V-Card Diaries 2)

“Awesome.” She lifts her hand, twining her pointer and middle fingers together. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. Though I know Evie will miss you if you’re not in the city anymore. Will you miss her? And stinky old New York?”

“Of course, I’ll miss Evie. And there are things I’ll miss about the city, too,” I say, a little miffed that Harlow clearly couldn’t give two shits whether I move over two hundred miles away.

But then, why should she? We aren’t lovers. We aren’t even friends. So why does the thought of only seeing her once or twice a year instead of once or twice a week make my stomach feel like it’s full of thumbtacks and acid?

Pushing my inappropriate angst aside, I add, “But I haven’t gotten the job, yet. They’re interviewing several experienced people.”

She reaches over, giving my thigh a friendly pat. “Aw, have faith. You’ll get it. You’re smart, professional, and great at your job. And you’re tall and have a deep voice.”

I huff. “I’m not sure what the last two have to do with landing a job, but…thanks?”

“Employers are more likely to hire tall men with deep voices than women or short men. It’s some primal, patriarchal bullshit that sucks for the rest of us, but it’s good for you.” She leans forward in her seat again with a giddy grin. “There it is. Every time I drive up this road, I get goose bumps. We had so much fun here when we were kids. I’ve never seen it in the winter before, though. It’s beautiful with the snow on the trees and the lake frozen over.”

“It is. Very beautiful,” I murmur, fighting to keep my attention on the road and not the sweet smile on Harlow’s face. I’ve missed seeing this side of her so much I can’t help but circle back to the question she dodged earlier. “Can we at least think about making our truce permanent? I don’t want to fight anymore, Hepburn. I like seeing your smile.”

Her gaze shifts sharply my way, and her grin falters.

But her eyes remain clear, with none of the usual suspicion creeping in to tighten them around the edges.

Finally, she nods. “I’ll think about it.” She motions toward the dining hall, a large, solid building constructed with giant timbers and softened by delicate gingerbread shutters around every window. “You can drop me off here. The group check-in is at the back of the dining hall, so that’s where my family’s meeting up. You check in, enjoy your afternoon ski, and we’ll touch base before dinner to plan the big fiancé reveal. Okay?”

I pull to the side of the road, letting a taxi zoom around me toward the overhang by the main check-in. “Sure thing. Want me to leave your suitcase with the valet until you know your room number?”

She grins. “No, you can take it up to your room, silly. My gram isn’t old-fashioned. Neither are my parents. If we aren’t sharing a room and presumably boinking like bunnies, there’s no way they’ll buy that we’re the real deal.”

“Boinking,” I echo, my stomach churning. “Never heard that one before.”

She laughs and pats my leg again with that same “just friends” energy, like she’s forgotten that she was melting in my arms and making sexy little turned-on sounds against my lips less than two hours ago.

“Stick with me, buddy. I know all the best words. And don’t stress about sharing a room. I’ll take the fold-out couch or wherever you were going to have Evie sleep if she came with you. And I’ll be up and out for my morning snowshoe before you’re even awake. I’ll stay so thoroughly out of your hair you’ll hardly know I’m there. And I’ll pay for half of the room.”

She sighs as she shrugs her purse over her shoulder and reaches for the door handle. “It’ll save me from sharing a space with my sister and her three screechy little darlings in the adjoining room. I adore my nieces and nephew, but they have no inside voice. It’s all loud all the time.” She starts to open the door, but pauses, her forehead furrowing as she studies my face. “Are you okay? Do you want me to come help with the luggage before I go to wait for everyone else to arrive? I’m happy to.”

“No, I don’t need help with the luggage.”

“Are you sure? I can help. I just thought—”

“It’s one suitcase, Harlow,” I snap. “I can handle it.”

Her brows lift and her expression cools. “All right. Then I’ll see you later, Satan.”

“You can’t call me Satan while we’re here. I don’t approve that nickname,” I call after her as she opens the door and hops out onto the pavement.

“Then stop acting like the dark lord, Mr. Grouchy About the Luggage, and I won’t call you by his name.”