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She nibbles on a fingernail. “So you still go to high school?”
“Yeah. Eastwick. ”
Silence. Her leather boots squeak as she adjusts her weight. The water still crashes against the tub. Elvis sings about rain.
“Eastwick’s a good school. ” She drops her hand and peeks at me from below her eyelashes.
Finally, I’m getting someplace. “Yeah, it is. ” No need to mention that my foster parents live right on the line between Eastwick, a good high school, and the one school in the county that is a step above a detention center. “I’m in the Automotive Accelerated Program. I’ve been the highest-ranking student in the program for the past two years. ”
Past four actually, but I never tell people that I received that honor, let alone how many years I’ve earned it.
“I’ve heard about that program. I read the brochures when I was in eighth grade, but. . . ” Rachel puts a hand over her mouth as if to prevent herself from saying anymore. “Anyhow, do you like it?”
> “Yeah, I do. ” I did it, I talked her down. The relief running through me is like a chaser after a shot. I push away the instincts that I’m playing with an unpinned grenade. People like her, nights like this, they don’t come around, and I just want to hold on to this flame for a little longer. Guys like me, we don’t make girls like her smile. “It’s where I learned to rebuild the engine in my Mustang. ”
A spark ignites in her violet eyes. “You rebuilt your own engine? That’s sweet. I’ve played with the idea of adding some modifications to mine to increase the horsepower. ”
I flinch at the thought. “Why? Your car is a perfect virgin. Never touched and in great shape. ”
“Which is why I haven’t, but between you and me—” Rachel leans her body in my direction as if she’s revealing a highly guarded secret “—I really wanted an ’04 Cobra. ”
That damn smile she’s already brought out in me once tonight crosses my face again. “An ’04 Cobra. That would be. . . ” And I steal one of her words. “Sweet. ”
“Yeah. It would, wouldn’t it?” Rachel rocks onto her toes and slides her long, beer-drenched hair behind her ear. “So, do you have a hair dryer?”
Chapter 12
Rachel
I PLACE THE DRYER ON the sink and run my fingers through my hair again. There—dry and officially beer-free. The edge of Isaiah’s dark blue T-shirt ends an inch short of my knees and I catch my silly smile in the blurry mirror. I’m wearing a guy’s shirt. Too freaking awesome.
I lower my chin to smell the shirt again. I want to wear this forever, without washing it. His dark, spicy aroma consumes the material. I peek at him from the corner of my eye, wondering if he spots me catching a whiff or if he knows how addicting his scent is to girls.
A knot forms in my throat. Does he have many girls?
As promised, Isaiah sits on the kitchen counter on the other side of the room from me. He leans forward, his legs lazily stretched apart with his joined hands resting between them as he watches me.
He’s observant. Overly so. I think he could tell me more about my actions than I could. A huge part of me doesn’t like it. In order for me to fit in at home, people can’t notice me. It’s harder to pull off being someone else when you’re the center of attention. But I’m not home. I’m miles from there. And here, in this room, I like how Isaiah looks at me as if I’m the only girl in the world.
Or like an antelope he’s going to pounce on.
My heart patters faster at the thought of him pouncing on me.
I fiddle with my hair for a few more seconds to buy time. What do you say to a totally hot guy when you’re alone with him in his apartment?
Alone.
A thrill of tickles moves in the center of my chest, and I think of the way his strong hand caressed my face at the bar. The tickles explode into my bloodstream as an adrenaline rush and I release a long steady breath to keep myself calm.
I really, really want him to touch me again.
One more tuck behind the ear, and I step out of the bathroom. “Thanks for the shirt. ” I fuss with the ends again.
“It looks good on you,” he says as his eyes settle on the curve of my hips. Holy hell, it got hot in here.
My jacket lies over the arm of the couch. I walk over to it and fish my cell phone out of the pocket. One a. m. and one text from Ethan: where r u?
Isaiah shifts uneasily as I text Ethan back. I glance at him while typing a reply. He changed while I was in the shower, switching a black T-shirt with wording for another with different wording. Isaiah keeps surveying the apartment, and I finally get it. He’s wondering how to keep a safe distance from me.
