Oh god. I cringe. He has an extra car and she’s suggesting he loan it to me. Then what? He flies out to L.A. to drive it home. Well … that might work. If he owns this cafe, then he must own the one out there. Surely he visits that location. But that doesn’t solve the issue of my dad not wanting me to drive home alone.

“I’m not simply driving out to L.A. I’m taking a trip. Taking my time. Enjoying my time alone to recharge just like I do every summer. It’s kind of a personal trip I take by myself.”

Oh no. No. No. No. She’s not suggesting I go with him.

“Two years ago you took Mo.”

“That was different.” He pours the drink into one of those heirloom mason jars and rinses out the blender.

I don’t know if I should join in on this conversation, insist that I don’t need help, or just stay out of it because I do need help. So I do what I do best when I’m nervous—primp.

Fishing out my makeup bag, I powder my nose, even out my eyeliner, apply more mascara, and pluck a few eyebrows.

They continue to bicker like a married couple and like I’m not right here, half listening to them, half trying to remember the date of my hair appointment.

“Look … does she appear to be a camper?”

When the chattering ceases, I glance up. What were they saying? Bethanne looks constipated like I’m doing something wrong and she’s disappointed in me. Jake has a smug look like I just proved some point for him.

I think back. Does she appear to be a camper?

“Oh…” I shrug “…I’ve camped before. It’s only for what … two, three nights?”

He rests his palms on the counter in front of me. I untie my hair and work it back into a neater bun.

“As long as I want. That’s how long my trip is. No rushing. No schedule. I’ll get there when I get there.”

Shit. I glance at my thumbnail. It’s chipped and rough along the edge, so I look for a file. I know there’s one in my bag, but I can’t find it. After removing most of the contents onto the counter, I find it.

“Hello?”

Filing the rough edge, I look up.

“Did you hear me?” Jake frowns, glaring at the file in my hand.

“Uh … yeah.” I keep filing. “You like to take your time driving to L.A. That’s fine. My job is … flexible.” I bite my lips together so he doesn’t see my I-don’t-have-a-job expression.

Jake chuckles, shaking his head. It’s a wicked chuckle. Why is he giving me a wicked chuckle? What did I miss?