“You take this one, or I’m going to make him stop at Target so I can buy a pool noodle and whack him with it,” I say to Smith and open up my group chat again.
Chelsey: Shit. What are the odds?
Penny: Not in my favor.
Jackie: What does he look like? Is he still all dreamboaty?
I glance at Smith from the corner of my eye, as if I somehow need a reminder of the fact that he’s aged quite well.
Penny: He looks fine.
Jackie: Fine?
Jackie: You’re a USA Today bestselling romance author, and all you’re going to give us is fine?
Chelsey: Never mind what he looks like. How do you feel about seeing him?
Jackie: Right. Feelings.
Jackie: Also, take his picture.
Penny: I don’t know how I feel.
Penny: And I can’t take his picture.
Jackie: Sure you can. Pretend you’re taking a selfie.
Chelsey: Or take a minute to process your emotions.
Penny: That’s weird.
Penny: The selfie fake out. Not the processing.
Penny: I’m not in the headspace to process feelings.
Jackie: Maybe taking his picture will help.
Chelsey: Jackie!
Jackie: What? You’re not curious what he looks like now?
Chelsey: A little.
Penny: Fine. I’ll take the damn picture.
Jackie: Thank you.
I turn on my camera, which is unfortunately on selfie mode. Nothing quite prepares you for seeing what you’d look like if Jabba the Hutt was your father. I flip the camera and steal a glance at Smith. Suddenly, my palms are all sweaty, and it feels like there might as well be a neon sign flashing above my head that reads Peeping Tom. The things I do for my friends. I lift my phone eye level and try to angle it so that it looks like I’m taking a selfie.
“Are you taking my picture?” Smith asks.
I fumble my phone. “No. I was taking a selfie.”
“Really? You want a photo to commemorate your time in this rideshare?”
“That sounds awfully judgy coming from a man who made me take his photo with the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile on more than one occasion.”
“Do not mock the Wienermobile.” Smith holds out his hand. “Hand me your phone. I’ll take the picture for you.”
“As if,” I say in my best Cher Horowitz voice. “The whole point of a selfie is that you don’t need anyone to take it for you. Ask any Kardashian.”
“True, but I’m pretty sure I could ask any Kardashian if they wanted their photo taken by an award-winning photographer and they’d jump at the chance.”
“You’re an award-winning photographer?”
“In the flesh.”
“Have they called you to photograph the Wienermobile yet?”
“Not yet.” He looks down at his hand. “The offer still stands.”
“Fine.” I quickly change my camera back to selfie mode and hand over my phone. “But make sure you get my good side. I don’t have the Kardashian money to ensure that all of my sides are good.”
“You never needed it, Pen.”
Heat spreads across the apples of my cheeks, and I can’t help but smile so big it hurts my face. He hands back my phone, and I instantly start to tuck it back in my purse.
“An award-winning photographer takes your picture, and you don’t even bother to look.” He shakes his head. “I’m insulted.”
“Calm down, diva. Clearly the description award-winning doesn’t extend to your personality.” I open up my phone. Looking up from my screen isn’t a picture of me. It’s him.
“You can let Jackie know that you got the damn picture.” He chuckles. “Her text popped up when you handed me the phone.”
My cheeks go from heated to wildfire, and for the first time in a very long time, I’m speechless. I drop the picture in the group chat and tuck my phone away.
“By the way, what exactly is a Smut Coven?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, which I wouldn’t mind doing, but it doesn’t seem fair to make Aidan an accomplice.”
Aidan slams on the brakes, and the van fishtails from side to side as we attempt to merge onto the 5. Ozzie and Harriet slide to the back of the van. I turn to reach for them, but Smith’s arm holds me back like a human seat belt. He holds me like that until Aidan regains control of the van, and when Smith finally moves his arm, I think my heart might beat right out of my chest.
“I think he’s trying to kill us both.” My voice shakes.
“Sorry about that!” Aidan shouts over his shoulder. “You’d think on Thanksgiving, people would at least be willing to let you in. Won’t be long until we’re at the bridge, and then it should be smooth sailing. You two should be home in no time.”