“Cool. I’ll drive.”
I veer harder left. “I’m not getting in your car.”
“Cassidy—”
“No.”
“Cricket—”
“Don’tCricketme.”
He walks ahead of me now, cutting me off, standing between me and the street.
“I’m not letting you walk home.”
“I’m not walking. I’m getting a ride-share.”
He snorts. “Yeah? You want to explain to your brother why you were standing on the curb in stilettos at midnight waiting for an Uber after your coke-mule finance bro got dragged out in cuffs?”
I freeze.
He smiles like he’s sayingGotcha.
“I hate you,” I mutter.
His smile falters—just slightly. The cocky glint in his eyes dulls for the briefest moment, like someone hit the dimmer switch.
“I know,” he says quietly this time.
Not smug. Not teasing. Just…knowing. Like he’s remembering the last time I said those words too. The party. The two girls he was with and the wreck he left in his wake.
I blink hard and look away.
The air shifts between us—charged and suddenly too still.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just steps back and holds the door open again.
I don’t meet his eyes as I climb in.
But I feel the memory settle between us.
Unspoken and heavy.
The silence stretches for just a moment—long enough to settle like a weight between us—before Jaxon throws the car into gear like the devil himself is on our tail.
I shriek, slapping a hand against the door and the other straight out, grabbing for something—anything—to keep myself grounded. That “something” ends up being his forearm.
The McLaren roars, the engine snarling like a beast as we weave through traffic with speed that is 100% illegal and 1000% unnecessary. Meanwhile, Jaxon’s driving like we’re on a lazy Sunday cruise to the farmer’s market. One hand on the wheel, completely relaxed. The other still under my death grip.
“You maniac!” I hiss, fingers digging into muscle that—unfortunately—doesn’t budge in the slightest. “Do you have a death wish or are you just trying to scare the shit out of me?”
“I’m just driving,” he says, smirking like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.
When I finally manage to peel my hand off his arm, I see the faint red marks I left behind.
“Sorry,” I mutter, brushing my hair behind my ear.
His eyes dip to my legs first, slow and unhurried, before rising to meet mine. “I didn’t mind.”
