“Yeah, sure,” he heard himself saying, rather to his own surprise. “Let’s go.”
Her smile was blinding. It convinced him that he’d given the right answer.
They delayed only long enough to retrieve Nicole’s black coat from the checkroom. It was swingy and sort of sparkly, Andrew noted as he helped her into it. It didn’t look particularly warm, but then he didn’t expect to be spending much time outdoors.
“Did you bring a car?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I came with the McClains.”
He nodded in satisfaction and had his own vehicle brought around for them. Nicole looked a bit surprised to discover that he’d driven a Range Rover.
And then she smiled and allowed him to help her into the high vehicle. “This is great,” she said.
“Thanks. It’s new.”
“I would have expected you to have a luxury car.”
“I have one at home,” he admitted. “But I was in the mood to drive this one tonight.” Since he’d only had the vehicle for a couple of weeks, the novelty of driving it still hadn’t worn off. He hadn’t expected to share it with anyone that evening.
“I’m ready for directions,” he told her as he pulled out of the crowded country club parking area.
“Head southwest,” she said, settling comfortably into the leather seat after fastening her seat belt. “Toward Beale Street.”
“Beale’s going to be packed tonight,” he warned, frowningly anticipating mobs of tipsy revelers packing the jazz and blues clubs along that popular strip. He usually avoided that scene on New Year’s Eve.
“Just drive,” she instructed with a smile. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”
He shrugged and cooperated, curious, but not particularly concerned about what she had in mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she squirmed out of her coat and threw it over the back of her seat. Her bare arms and nearly bare shoulders gleamed softly in the shadowy interior of the vehicle. And then she tugged down her visor to find the lighted vanity mirror on the other side.
She reached up and began pulling pins out of her hair, dropping them carelessly into the console between them. Andrew swallowed hard when cascades of heavy dark curls tumbled around her shoulders. Noting that he was paying as much attention to her actions as to his driving, she smiled and combed through her hair with her fingers.
“This feels so much better,” she murmured. “All those pins were giving me a headache.”
She looked different with her hair down. The untamed curls bounced and swayed around her face as though celebrating their release from captivity. They made her look younger. Less conventional.
A horn blew and Andrew forced his attention back to his driving.
Flipping the visor into place, Nicole twisted in her seat to look at him. “What do your friends and family call you?”
He was rather surprised by the question. “Andrew.”
“No nicknames? Andy? Drew? Junior?”
“Definitely not. And I’m not a ‘junior.’ My father is.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re a ‘third.’ How did everyone distinguish who they wanted when you and your father were both in the house?”
“We weren’t both in the house at one time very often,” he answered with a shrug.
“Andrew,” Nicole murmured after a moment. “It sounds so formal.”
She hesitated, and he frowned. If she thought she was going to start calling him “Andy,” he would have to swiftly disabuse her of the idea.
But then she shrugged and changed the subject. “What do you do for fun, Andrew Colton Tyler III?”
He always hated it when people asked him that. He did the same things other people did—he worked, he went out, he sometimes played golf or tennis or raquetball.
Nicole seemed vaguely dissatisfied with the list. “I see.”