Stick To the Script // Danny O'Donoghue

Chapter 39-The Forthwells

Bryna

I laugh as we pull away leaving our truck driver in the dust.

"That was awesome!" I say as I adjust my floppy, white hat on my head.

He smirks beside of me reaching over to rest his hand on my bare knee.

"I haven't shaved in a while." I warn him.

"I don't mind." he says.

I look over him and smile but he keeps his eyes locked on the road.

I lean over and kiss him on the cheek his dark stubble prickling my soft lips.

He grows tense and squeezes my knee softly. I notice his short breath.

"Are you okay lovely?"

"Yeah, perfect."

"You sure?"

He nods and I kiss him on the cheek again to test my theory.

He bits his lip.

Yep, he wants me.

"What the hell are you trying to do to me?"

I laugh, "Nothing, here put your hat on." I say as I reach to the center console and grab the straw fedora, and placing it on his head.

"Why do you even have this?"

"Oh...I was into theatre a few years back...don't ask."

He stifles a laugh and adjusts the hat on his head.

"You weirdo."

"Hey, don't judge."

We drive quietly for a while, listening to the radio on low, the sun beating down on my feet that I've stuck out the window.

"It's such a nice day." I say.

"Awful warm for winter."

"The weather is strange here." I say. "I've learned that the hard way."

He shrugs and starts to sing along to some song that comes on the radio.

When we finally arrive in the town where the race is being hosted I smile, glancing outside at the the bright sun beating down on the town.

"Some bad weather this is." Danny mutters.

"I know. It's ridiculous." I say as we pull up to a traffic light."

I am glancing out the window when I see exactly what I'm looking for.

"Danny! Stop there!" I point, nearly scaring him to death.

He jerks the wheel and turns as the light turns to go.

"Jesus Bryn!" he shouts as he pulls into the parking spot.

I open the door and unbuckle my seat belt rushing to the clothing store in front of me, "Hurry, the race starts at one!" I shout as he slowly gets out of the car.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"To get some appropriate apparel!" I shout walking into the store across the street.

The soft classical music fills my ears and a lady in a tight black dress approaches me, "I'm sorry darling," she says in a snobby English accent. "We don't allow the homeless in here."

I glance down at my outfit. She is right. I look like a hobo.

I put on a classy Londener accent and take off my hat, "I'm sorry madam. My name is Elizabeth Forthwell...I am not homeless."