Page 44 of The Do-Over

“Thanks. I’ve been told pasta really brings out my eyes.”

I laughed and made the mistake of glancing at him. The sharp edges of his profile softened into a smile. My breath caught, and I coughed to cover it.

He shot me a concerned look. “Hey, are you cold?” He fussed with a dial and a wave of warmth blasted from the vent. At the next light, he twisted around and pulled something from the backseat. “Here. Put this on and get warm.”

It was a sweatshirt. His sweatshirt.

“It’s an extra one I keep in the car, just in case.” When I hesitated, he nudged my elbow. “It’s clean, I promise.”

“Um, thanks.” I pulled it over my head, praying it fit me. After wrestling with it and the seat belt, I found myself swallowed in it. In fact, I had to roll up the sleeves. The front read Bronx Community College. “Your alma mater?”

He snorted. “For about five minutes.”

“You didn’t like school?”

“Back then, I didn’t like anything that was good for me.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond and, in my silence, I couldn’t help picturing Nate the Bad Boy. I won’t lie—it was an attractive thought.

He turned down the final stretch to the apartment complex. Disappointment pooled in my stomach, almost outweighing the nervousness. It was nice talking to him, easier than I’d expected, and I wanted to keep the conversation going. I groped around my brain for a topic.

“Did you know worms have five hearts?” Yes, that’s what I said.

“That so?”

“I, um, yes.” Stop right there. No. More. Words. “They can also reproduce on their own.” My fingers curled around the seat belt strap. “And peacocks are male, peahens are female, peachicks are babies, and peapods are their eggs.”

My face flamed, likely a shade of red so brilliant, there wasn’t a name for it. Now we could name it Perci Red, and Mimi would get a pair of shoes in that very shade and tell everyone they were named for her granddaughter. “I was kidding about the peapods. That was a dumb joke. I do that sort of thing when I’m nervous.”

I felt, rather than saw, him glance at me.

“Not that you make me nervous in an ‘I think you might be a serial killer’ way. It’s more of a… a…” The truck lurched to a stop in front of the apartment complex, saving me from finishing that sentence.

He grabbed my purse from the back. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. No, still not handsome, but I could have stared at him forever. Which I was apparently trying to do.

He cleared his throat. “We’re here.”

“Oh, right.” Pushing open the door, I slid halfway out of the car and turned back. “Thanks for the ride.”

He smiled. “No problem.”

I hopped out, slammed the door, and took a leaping step before I was yanked back by the sweatshirt I’d just shut in the door.

“Oh, gosh. Sorry,” I said when I opened the door.

“Goodbye, Perci.” His voice brimmed with laughter, and I felt it in my toes.

I raced into the apartment lobby and out of the rain. Then, like a dope, I stood right in front of the door, my face pressed to the glass like a kid at a candy store and watched him drive away.

EIGHTEEN

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.

At least you know it’ll be better than the movie.”

—MIMI

Hope House was nestled in the outskirts of west Houston in what appeared to be a former grocery store in a strip mall. Everywhere I looked, off-white besieged me. Off-white walls, off-white floors, an off-white couch that looked like it had lived a long, off-white life and needed to be taken out back and shot.