"Suit yourself," he says, leaning back against his car with a shrug that says he couldn't care less. "But you currently look like you lost a fight with your own morning, and you’re going to smell like burnt beans and desperation all day.”
"I don’t have time for this," I snap, frantically blotting the coffee with my sleeve. It’s a lost cause; the cream color is drinking the liquid, the brown stain spreading into an ugly, scattered map across my chest. I let out a sound of pure frustration, realize the knit is already ruined, and shrug out of it with an aggressive tug. I’m left in my camisole, the soft breeze biting at my skin, but it’s better than wearing a wet rag.
"I have a presentation in fifteen minutes and now I’m a walking disaster," I mutter, holding the sodden cardigan away from me like it's a dead animal.
Dominic’s mouth curves. It’s not a smirk; it’s the look of someone who has already decided how this is going to go. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't even ask.
"Trade."
He reaches into his duffel and pulls out a black technical team jacket. This isn't an item you can just buy at a sporting goods store; it’s structured, made of a silent, wind-resistant fabric with the team’s sponsors in matte-black embroidery along the sleeves. Across the back, in sharp, silver lettering, is his name: Valerio.
It’s the kind of gear only the crew and the drivers touch. It’s a piece of the paddock, and it smells like high-octane fuel and the expensive air of a garage.
"I’ll get that cleaned," he says, nodding at my ruined cardigan. "Then I'll bring it to the track later."
I stare at the jacket in his other hand. It feels like a trap. "I can't exactly walk onto campus wearing your name, Dominic. People have eyes."
Dominic doesn't blink. Instead, he reaches up and slides his sunglasses slowly to the top of his head, baring eyes that are dark and dangerously focused. He leans in, meeting me at eye level until I can see the flecks in his iris’s, his mouth hooking into a slow, flirtatious curve that isn't quite a smile and isn't quite a dare.
"I could make us both much later than you already are," he says. His voice is a low, rough edge that brushes against my skin.
The air in the driveway suddenly feels heavy, saturated. His gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth, lingering there with a heavy, deliberate intensity that makes my stomach do a slow, nauseating flip.
For a split second, I’m right there with him, imagining some door locking and the world outside the driveway ceasing to exist. The logic of the morning—the data, the deadlines—all of it begins to blur at the edges.
He doesn't give me the chance to recover.
While I’m still lost in the pull of that thought, Dominic moves. He shifts further into my space, the motion so fluid and fast it catches the breath in my throat. Before I can find my footing, before I can even lift my hands to maintain a shred of distance, the heavy material of the jacket is already draping over my shoulders. He doesn’t hand it to me; he ensnares me in it.
"Arms," he murmurs.
His voice is a low vibration I feel in my teeth, cutting through my trance like a command.
I freeze for a second, my pulse hammering in my ears, my brain finally catching up to the fact that I’m being dressed like a child—or a prize. The jacket is massive, the structured shoulders boxing me in, and the scent of him is suddenly everywhere, thick and inescapable.
He stays close, his presence all over as his hands find the zipper. He pulls it up to my sternum with a slow, mechanical precision, the zip sounding like a finality.
I tug my hands through the oversized cuffs. The fog in my head is clearing, replaced by a sharp spike of reality.
"This is a terrible idea," I breathe, the black fabric of the collar brushing against my skin. "People are going to talk."
A small, sharp twitch pulls through his cheek—a flash of genuine irritation that flickers across his face and vanishes just as fast.
"You gonna keep chatting with me," he asks, his voice dropping to a gravelly low as he steps back just enough to let me breathe, "or are you going to get to campus?"
I glance down at my phone. Ten minutes. I have ten minutes.
"Better start running then," he says, catching the time too.
I turn and bolt for my car, my heart tripping over itself for a completely different reason now. I throw it into reverse, the engine's growl echoing off the exterior walls of the mansion, and for a second, I focus entirely on the mechanical.
But as I swing the nose around to face the gate, my eyes betray me. They flick to the rearview mirror before I can stop the impulse.
Dominic is still standing exactly where I left him. He isn't looming or looking predatory anymore. Instead, he raises a hand in a slow, casual wave, and a smile breaks across his face—not a smirk, but something bright and dangerously infectious.
My pulse stutters, a sudden, violent misfire that has nothing to do with the speed of the car. I’ve seen him look arrogant, and I’ve seen him look focused, but I’ve never seen him look likethat. He looks like a man who just stood on the top step of a podium. He looks like he’s just claimed the only trophy that matters, and the sheer, unadulterated satisfaction on his face lands somewhere it shouldn’t—and it feels better than it has any right to.
I don't understand the look or this sudden warmth under my skin, but I don't have time to analyze it. I check the dashboard clock. Nine minutes.
