I don't move.
He stops and looks back. "It's not a game, little rebel. Now let's go."
He starts walking, and reluctantly, I follow.
I huff as my heels pound the pavement, showing my frustration.
He glances back over his shoulder but doesn't say anything.
When we get to the car, he opens the back door and turns to me.
I stop, staring at him. At the open door. At the choice I don't really have.
"Get in," he says.
I arch a brow. "Say please."
His mouth twitches. "Not my style."
I slide in, furious.
Not at him. At myself.
He shuts my door and circles around to the driver's side, getting in without a word.
The engine starts, smooth and quiet.
I stare out the window, my hands clenched in my lap.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't gloat that he won.
Just drives while I sit here simmering.
And I really dislike that the car smells like his cologne, which reluctantly smells good.
"I told you I'd make this difficult," I snap, because I feel the need to say something, dammit.
"You're not difficult," he says. "You're predictable."
"Oh, stop acting like you know me so well," I say.
He looks up at me in the rearview mirror, smirks, and looks down
"Where do you want to go?"
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. I feel kind of silly that I look like I'm pouting, but he’s just so infuriating I don't know what to do.
As I look up at his face in the mirror, one thing becomes clear, and it might be the real source of what's really bothering me. I'm in this car because he's the first man who's ever told me no and meant it.
God help me, I'm starting to wonder what else he'll mean.
7
OCTAVIAN
It's been two weeks since I started this fucking babysitting job, and I already know every pattern she doesn't think she has.
Keira Killaney wakes up late. Skips breakfast. Likes cappuccinos but only drinks half before abandoning the rest on the counter or table.
