Melting With You
She’d left her shoes in the car, pulled his jacket over her head like a tarp, and clutched her bag to her chest, and on the count of three, they’d made a run for it — but even the twenty yards from the parking area to the bungalow porch was enough, very likely, to ruin the skirt of her suit.
Dammit — why do I ever bother to buy dry-clean only? She thinks, trying to finger-comb her damp, rain-blown hair back into place and wishing she’d followed the train of thought that had them still in the car, steaming up the windows, making streaky handprints on the glass as they …
He’s next to her, shaking out his soaked hair like the world’s largest puppy. He sees her irritated expression and smiles that smile — the placating one that somehow manages to hint at things he won’t say, for instance that he wouldn’t have minded the staying-in-the-car scenario either.