“You’re welcome,” I mumble. “See you soon.”
I hang up with a weary sigh.
Looks like I’m going to be making an all-night drive to New Orleans—just what the doctor ordered after working seventy-two hours straight with only a few five-hour naps thrown in.
“What’s up?” Mick asks, holding out my clutch, which I apparently abandoned on the table in my haste to get some privacy for my call.
“It’s my mom.” I take the clutch, shoving my phone back inside just as the text with the address to the hotel pops through. “I’ve got to be in New Orleans to pick her up by tomorrow morning.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Faith, that’s like…a nine-hour drive.”
“I know, but she’s afraid to leave the hotel so I can’t wire her money for the bus, so…” I shrug, trying not to let my embarrassment show. “Sorry I ruined the night.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.” He sets a hand on my back, rubbing the spot in between my shoulders in a way that’s unexpectedly soothing. “But I don’t think you should drive all that way by yourself, especially after working three days straight. Why don’t I come with you? Help you drive?”
I blink up at him in surprise. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He smiles. “But I don’t have work until Monday. And I don’t like the idea of you driving all that way alone in the dark.”
“Really, I’m fine, Mick,” I say as I start down the sidewalk, heading back toward home. “I’m used to driving alone.”
“Oh, come on,” he says, falling in beside me. “It’ll be fun. We’ll stop at the Quik Stop on the way out of town, stock up on candy, and ride the sugar high south.”
I peek at him out of the corner of my eyes, torn. Leaning on Mick probably isn’t a good idea, but I am a little worn down, and Jamison and Jake will probably appreciate a break from being my go-to guys for Mama-related problems. On occasions when I feel compelled to call in reinforcements, the Hansen brothers never make me feel guilty, but Jake is probably enjoying a night off with Naomi, and Jamison is at work so…
“All right,” I say, feeling lighter as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
“Good.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders as we cross the street. “I’m glad. I’m not ready to say good-bye yet.”
“Me, either,” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them, but Mick doesn’t seem weirded out.
He just smiles down at me and hugs me a little closer to his side.
So far, we’re both doing a crappy job of keeping this casual, but…it’s hard to care about that right now, when his arm feels so good around my shoulders.
Chapter Ten
Mick
I can’t decide if I’m having the best—or just the strangest—date of my life, but I’m having a blast.
And somehow, I know this is a night I’ll never forget.
By the time Faith and I reach the Alabama state line, we’ve eaten all our candy stash and moved on to nursing extra-large coffees to stay awake. By the time we spot the sign announcing we’re fifty miles from Mobile, we’re so exhausted we have to pull over and chase each other around the truck in the cold night air to catch our second wind.
And by the time we cross into Mississippi, we’re blasting eighties power ballads and singing along at the top of our lungs, having decided the only way not to fall asleep at the wheel is to never stop singing.
“Wow, Miller,” I say, reaching over to turn down the volume after a rousing rendition of Don’t Stop Believin’. “You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket with two hands and a wheelbarrow.”
“What a jerk you are,” she says, with an outraged laugh. “And to think I was just going to tell you what a nice voice you had, too.”
“I do have a nice voice,” I say, laughing when her fist shoots across the bench seat to punch my shoulder. But not hard. She’s going soft on me, I think. “What can I say, I’m a classic Irish tenor.”
“You’re an arrogant son of a gun is what you are.” She shakes her head in mock disgust. “Is there anything you aren’t good at, Mr. Fabulous?”
I take a moment, humming beneath my breath as I consider the question. “I can’t cook to save my life, sometimes I steal milk from my sisters’ fridge and lie about it, and I’m not great at tennis.”
“I’ve never played,” she says. “I know things are changing now, but growing up, all the girls who played tennis wore those short skirts. And I’m not into sports with short skirts.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, meeting her glare with a grin. “What? I can’t help it. I think you’d look great in a tennis skirt.”