I smirk at her. “Fine. Then I trump it with the penis card.”

“That’s not how it works.” She sounds exasperated.

“Then how does it work? Because last I checked, genitals don’t decide who gets to listen to their music first.”

“Oh yes, they do.” Allie addresses me like I’m a kindergartner. “See, if you take away my dick privileges, I’ll be fine for months. Years, even. But if I take away your pussy privileges? You’ll be utterly lost. Like a drowning man at sea, desperately grabbing for the vagina preserver.” She beams. “Therefore, vagina trumps penis.”

My smirk fades, because she’s right.

As a result, I spend the first thirty minutes of the drive listening to cheesy 80s ballads that all feature the word love in their titles.

“I Want to Know What Love Is.”

“I Just Called To Say I Love You.”

“It Must Have Been Love.”

You’d think Allie was not so subtly trying to tell me something, except I’m fairly certain every song from the 80s is about love.

When it’s my turn, I pick the filthiest tracks I can find. Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Some non-radio-friendly Jay-Z. Cypress Hill. I even throw an Insane Clown Posse song in there.

Allie retaliates by putting on Madonna’s greatest hits.

Instead of punishing her, I decide to reward myself and switch from hip-hop to country. Yup, rich boy likes Tim McGraw. So sue me.

We’re still on the I-90 with about two hours left to go when Allie pulls out her phone and starts typing.

Keeping my eyes on the road, I ask, “Who you texting?”

“Dillon…a friend from high school. She goes to college in Florida, but I’m hoping she’s coming home for the break. Oooh, and I should check if Fletch is around.”

“Fletch?”

“Kyle Fletcher, but I call him Fletch,” she says absently. “Ex-boyfriend.”

My head swivels toward her. “You’re making plans with your ex-boyfriend?”

“Retract those claws, missy. Fletch is still a good friend of mine.”

I can’t fight my curiosity. “How long were you together?”

“Three years.”

I whistle softly. “And then three and a half more with Sean…You’re a nester, huh?”

“No, I’m not,” she protests.

“Babe, that’s almost seven years of your life spent in a serious relationship. And you’re only twenty-two.”

“Twenty-one. I’m a Christmas baby.”

“For real? Your birthday’s the twenty-fifth?”

“The twenty-fourth. I guess that makes me a Christmas Eve baby. Sorry.”

“You better be sorry. How dare you mislead me like that?”

She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, fine. You’re right. That is a long time.” She pauses. “What’s your longest relationship?”

“A little over a year.” I answer without moving my gaze from the dark highway.

“Really?” she says in surprise. “That’s a lot longer than I expected. High school?”

I nod.

“Why’d you break up?”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Because we were in high school.”

“So? What if she was your soulmate?” Allie challenges. “You don’t believe high school sweethearts can make it?”

“Nope. I don’t think you’re capable of knowing what you want or need from a relationship at that age. When you’re in high school, you have no concept of real life. You don’t realize how much growing up you still have to do. I’m definitely not the same person now that I was in my teens. Hell, I’m not the same person I was last semester.”

“Sure you are.” She smiles sweetly. “You were a manwhore last semester and you’re a manwhore this semester.”

“True,” I say with a snicker.

Allie drops her phone in the cup holder and shifts around in her seat so she can see me better. “Do you still talk to your high school girlfriend?”

Tension slices into my bones. “No.”

“You just lost touch?”

“I guess you can say that.” I exhale slowly, hoping to ease the tightness in my chest. “She’s the reason Coach O’Shea hates me, actually. Miranda’s his daughter.”

“Uh-oh. You dated your coach’s daughter?” Allie takes on a chiding tone. “Oh, sweetie, that’s like rule number one in the dating handbook—never date the kid of your authority figure.”

“Do I look like someone who follows the rules?” My answering grin fades rapidly. “I couldn’t help it,” I admit. “At the time, Miranda was pretty frickin’ awesome. Impossible to resist. She attended Greenwich Prep for free because Frank coached there, so she wasn’t a rich kid. She was completely different from the girls I’d always gone to school with. She didn’t give a shit about image or being the Queen B, didn’t shame other people to make herself feel better. She was down-to-earth. Funny. Hot.”

“Well duh. Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis only bangs hotties.”

“I didn’t bang her. At least not right away. It took a long time to get there, but I wasn’t in any hurry.” I wink. “We had fun doing other stuff.”

“So when did you do the deed?”

“A couple months before we broke up.” My shoulders stiffen again. I hate thinking about that night.

Allie senses it, because her tone becomes wary. “What happened?”

Fuck, why did I even open this door? “About nine months into the relationship, things got…intense.” And why am I even answering the question? “Miranda started talking about us staying together when we went to college, which was never part of the deal.”

“Wait—did O’Shea know at this point? That you were dating his daughter?”

“Yeah, he knew. He wasn’t thrilled, but he said as long as Miranda was happy, he was happy. Didn’t stop him from giving me grief about it, though. I’d pick her up for a date and he’d interrogate me about where we were going, who would be there, when we’d be back. And one time he threatened to shoot my balls off if I didn’t treat her with respect.”

“My father gave Fletch the same speech when we started dating. Trust me, it’s a dad thing.” Allie’s laughter dies off. “So Miranda was talking about college…?”