“Are we ever going to have a real conversation?” One side of his mouth lifts. “We had a good one not too long ago.” “That’s not what I mean.” “Want to start with politics or religion?” He chuckles darkly at my answering scowl before he shifts, pinning me to my seat as we race forward. “Eggs—runny, coffee—black, beer—cold, music—loud, cars,” he floors the gas. “Fast,” I say through a laugh. “Woman,” he turns and rolls his mirror colored gaze over me. Woman, not women. I feel that comment so much I move to grip his hand, and he pulls it away before I reach it.
