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Sighing, he shakes his head. “Let me take you home.”
“No thanks. My coworker is going to take me home later. Thanks for your offer though.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
I roll my eyes and look down at my e-reader. Sexy or not, I don’t know him well enough to accept a ride.
“Emerald...” His voice is low and he’s standing right next to me.
“Carter...”
“Get up so I can take you home.”
I scroll to another page of my book, tuning him out. He’ll get the point soon.
The next thing I know, he’s picking me up and tossing me over his shoulder, carrying me out of the diner. By the time I completely process what the hell he’s doing, he’s placing me into his car—a classic red Mustang, and shutting the door.
“Are you comfortable?” He smiles as he slides into the driver seat.
I groan and pull the door handle, but it won’t budge.
“Seriously?” I glare at him. “Are you aware that this is kidnapping?”
“Not when the captive is willing.” He steers the car out of the parking lot and onto the road.
I sigh and turn my attention to my e-reader, immersing myself in a better world again.
Half an hour later, the car stops at a red light and I look up. We’re entering the next county over and still have a long way to go before we’re back in Blythe.
“What book are you reading?” Carter’s blue eyes meet mine.
“Light in August.”
“William Faulkner,” he says, nodding. “You don’t strike me as the Southern gothic literature type.”
“I’m an all literature type.”
He moves his hand over my lap and picks up my e-reader, placing it in his door’s side compartment. “How many books do you normally read in a week?”
“Five or more, depends on how I feel.”
“Hmmm.” He eases the car onto the gravel road ahead of us as the light turns green. “Are you an English major?”
I want to mention the ‘no personal questions from strangers’ rule, but since he’s not playing any music and has prevented me from reading, I allow myself to answer. “I flunked out of college.”
I wait for him to ask “Why” so I can say “None of your goddamn business,” but he doesn’t.
“Did you know that William Faulkner was a drunk?” he asks.
“The best writers usually are. Do you drink?”
“Occasionally. Do you?”
I don’t answer. “Can you turn on the heat?”
He presses a button and turns the windshield wipers up a notch. “How long have you been dating your boyfriend?”
“From Faulkner and alcohol to ‘How long have you been dating your boyfriend’? You couldn’t think of a smoother transition?”
“Figured I’d get straight to the point. Is it serious?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does.” He slows the car as the yellow light in front of us turns red. Then he faces me. “I want you, so I need to know how hard I have to work to make you see that your boyfriend will never compare to me.”
I cross my legs. “How charming.”
“Is it serious?”
“Very.”
“What’s his name?”
“The light is green. Drive.”
He puts the car in park. “Tell me his name.”
“Brian. Drive.”
“How old is he?”
“What?! None of your business.”
“Because he doesn’t actually exist or because you don’t want me to know?”
“I don’t want you to know.”
He’s silent for a while, but then he leans back. “Your boyfriend—Brian, let you sit in a diner for hours so you could wait for your friend to get off work and take you home?”
I don’t answer.
“Even if he does like to be rough with you, the marks on your wrist look like he’s hurting you. Doesn’t seem like boyfriend material.”
“This is exactly why I don’t get in cars with strangers.” I sigh. “I made him up. He doesn’t exist, and the handcuff marks are from being arrested last night. Don’t ask me what for because it’s none of your damn business, and I would really appreciate it if you gave me my e-reader so I could go back to enjoying the ride home.”
“I’ll think about it. How long have you been living in Blythe?”
“If I didn’t answer that question on the first day we met, what makes you think I’ll answer it now?”
“Because you want to.” He pauses. “And because as badly as you want to deny it, you’ve been thinking about me since we first met.”
I can’t help but laugh. Hysterically.
