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“Then you shouldn’t have agreed to it.”
Pivoting back around, I headed toward the gates to go home.
“But tomorrow I can say I rode in his truck,” she whined, jogging up to the side of me.
So? “No.”
He was only offering to give her a ride because it included me. It would only encourage him.
Elle fell back, and I kept walking.
“It’s nice to be nice, Emmy,” she called after me. “Please?”
I slowed, her pathetic whine making me feel guilty. I stopped and rolled my eyes, sighing. Him giving her a ride would make her year.
And who was I kidding? He wasn’t going to give up if I refused a ride tonight. The creepy-stalker-weirdo would follow me in that damn truck. Right up to my front door.
I turned around, seeing her already heading back into the parking lot, a morose slump to her shoulders.
“Wait,” I bit out.
She spun around, smiling ear to ear.
I joined her again, and we both walked over to Will’s truck, still parked.
“You’re sitting up front,” she told me. “My house is first.”
Huh—?
But she shoved me at the door of the huge, black Ford Raptor and pulled open the back door, climbing into the truck before I could utter an argument.
Seriously?
I yanked open the door and stepped up into the truck, ignoring Will’s eyes as I plopped my ass down and slammed the door.
But just then, the back door opened again, and I shot a glance over my shoulder, watching Elle quickly exit the truck again and close the door.
“What are you…?”
She walked past my window, swinging around and moving backward as she winked at me. “Have a safe ride!” she sing-songed, doing a taunting little wave.
What the…? I stopped breathing as realization dawned. This was a trick. Dammit.
The locks clicked, the parking lot still swarmed with people, and I was officially done for the day, shaking my head as I watched her disappear into the crowd.
“That’s what I get for trying to make a friend,” I grumbled.
I pulled my seatbelt on, glaring over at Will as a smile curled his lips and he started the engine.
So clever, wasn’t he? Must’ve worked that out with her in the thirty seconds it took for me to get off the bus.
He pulled ahead, driving through the empty space ahead of us, and exited the parking lot, turning up the volume as “In Your Room” played on the stereo.
We drove down the road, heading back toward the village, and I clasped my hands in my lap as my bag and flute sat on the floor.
It smelled good in here. The leather seats cooled the backside of my thighs, and my stomach dropped a little as he went over the bumps and dips.
The darkness of the cab engulfed us, hiding us, and it felt private. Like we were alone somewhere we shouldn’t be.
