I clear my throat. “So I take it you’re close with Lacey, too.”
He nods.
“I’m the maid of honor,” I tell him, as if I’m trying to prove how close me and Lacey are.
“I know,” he says grimly. “I’m the best man.”
The best man?
So he’s part of the wedding party?
Well, that’s just great.
I gulp and eye the clock on the dashboard. It’s almost noon.
“How long is the drive to…Robert?”
He just shakes his head. “Russell,” he corrects me, eking out the word.
“Sorry! Russell.”
“Four hours.”
Four. Hours?
In this truck? With this man?
My stomach does an unsettling little skip at that.
This is going to be hell.
Three
Tai
I’d always pictured Hell not as the cliché burning inferno, but as an endless room with popcorn walls and buzzing fluorescent lights, filled with heavy mouth breathers talking way too close to you and saying words like “moist,” “yummy,” and “wellness,” slow walkers arguing loudly on cell phones, lukewarm coffee on wobbly tables, dogs running around without a leash and shitting everywhere. There are no outlets, everything you touch feels like chalk, and there’s always someone who sweats too much giving you unsolicited advice.
That’s what I thought Hell with a capital H was.
Until I had to pick up Daisy Lewis from the airport.
Now I know it’s being stuck in my truck for four hours, driving an out-of-touch girl that acts like she’d rather be somewhere else, seeming completely unappreciative of what I had to do for her, while occasionally making some snippy remark.
If I were being fair, I’d say that her snippy remarks are correlated to my own snippy remarks about her, but I don’t feel like being fair.
Besides, she seems like the type of girl that needs to be put in her place. I mean, she’s fucking humming, for god’s sake. The worst part is, I can’t figure out what tune it is. I want to ask her, but at the same time I don’t dare get into another conversation.
We’re just past Whangerei, about another hour and a bit to go, when I finally snap.
“What song is that?” I ask, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
“I don’t know,” she says, and she says it in such a way that I can’t tell if she’s fucking with me or not. “Why, do you like it?” She adds a sweet smile.
She’s been giving me that smile a lot. And I don’t like it, or that smile.
At all.
It makes her look ridiculously pretty. Which is unwarranted.
Not that she’s hard on the eyes—she’s the opposite.
Daisy Lewis is hobbit-sized with a narrow waist and curves that give you whiplash if you look at her too quickly. Her hair is long, this dark golden-red color that reminds me of autumn fields at sunset, her nose is delicately upturned, her skin is pale and dotted with freckles, a look that reminds me of the crushes of my youth.
Then there are her eyes.
Dangerous eyes.
Impossibly big and icy blue.
The kind of eyes that are used to holding men hostage, I’m sure.
She’s not perfect of course. Her ears stick out and her front teeth are big. I’ve been trying to focus on that, along with her annoying personality.
“I love it,” I tell her, knowing if I told her the truth she would keep doing it. “Please keep going.”
She narrows her eyes and studies me for a moment before she looks out the window.
“What are these trees called?” she asks.
I sigh. She’s been awfully curious this entire ride, asking question after question about New Zealand, which I guess isn’t a bad thing. I’m just not used to speaking so much, and I hate that she’s bringing this out of me.
“Kauri,” I tell her. I hesitate. “There are a lot of them in the Northland.”
She makes a thoughtful “huh” remark, and then I feel her gaze back on me.
Don’t look at her eyes, you’ll drive off the road.
I can practically feel her knowing smirk. “You didn’t want to tell me that last part, did you? You know, talking to you is like pulling teeth. Anyone ever told you that?”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel in annoyance, wishing she wasn’t so close to me. Occasionally I get a whiff of vanilla and roses, which must be her perfume. I have to say, even though she looks a little uneasy at times, she looks pretty damn good for having been on an airplane for thirteen hours.
“I’m used to keeping to myself,” I tell her, and immediately regret even giving her a snippet of information. She’s going to use this as a jumping off point, isn’t she?
She twists toward me slightly, her thigh pressing against mine. “So, tell me how you know Richard. I know you said you were neighbors.”
“Yes. We were neighbors.”
“Uh huh. And where did you grow up? Auckland?”
I clench my jaw, wondering how short my answers can be.