Page 31 of Stranger to Love

Her eyes flickered to me at a red light. She scoffed and rolled her eyes, but her shoulders slumped fractionally. I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice to its sweetest register. “Please, Dr. Carter?”

At the next set of lights, she made a left instead of a right toward Heeley Street. This was the best accomplishment I had ever made in my entire life. I tried not to smile too wide; when she glanced at me, she rolled her eyes. “You're such a brat,” she said, her voice husky and just a little threatening.

Oh, fuck me sideways. She did not just call me a brat. I mean, I was, but—I took a deep breath—Dr. Carter did not just call me one. Was this woman trying to get me to fall to my knees, because I fucking would.

She pulled up to the 24-hour McDonald’s speaker, looking like she wanted to punch me. “What do you want?”

“Six Chicken McNugget large meal with a Coke, please.”

Hearing Dr. Carter formally order chicken nuggets to a drive-through speaker was officially the greatest moment of my life. She paid swiftly with her watch at the window. I reached out, grabbing her forearm to stop her. “Wait—you didn’t need to do that.”

She raised an eyebrow, her eyes dropping to where my hand was firmly gripping her bare skin. I pressed my lips together, pulling my hand back. “Sorry.”

She grabbed the bag from the cashier, practically threw it into my lap, and sped off.

I moaned happily, eating a hot chip. “Thank you.”

She hummed, cast a look of pure disgust at my hands, and opened the centre console, popping out a bottle of hand gel. Right. Clean freak.

I chuckled, squirting the gel onto my palms and rubbing them together. Then, a horror realised.

“No, no, no,” I groaned, opening my hands. The alcohol in the gel had completely dissolved the ink. Jeans’ number was a smudged, blue-black mess. “Shit. She was so hot.”

“Is the order wrong?” Dr. Carter asked, her voice entirely calm as we neared Heeley Street. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch played at the corner of her lips before her face smoothed back into complete innocence.

“No, the food is perfect,” I sulked, staring at my ruined palm. “Doesn’t matter.”

Choosing chaos to make myself feel better and determined to break her rigid composure, I picked up a single chicken nugget and held it out, dangling it between my fingers right in front of her face. “Nugget?”

She leaned visibly away from me. “No.”

“Are you sure? It’s really good.”

“Alex.”

I was weirdly getting used to her using my name as a threat.

She pulled the car to a smooth, silent stop at the curb on Heeley Street. The silence was suddenly immense, broken only by the low rumble of the Mercedes engine and the aggressive rustle of my McDonald's bag.

“If you continue to test my patience, this is the last time I offer you a lift home,” she stated, her voice flat, devoid of humour or threat—a simple, cold statement of fact. She still didn't look at me, her focus intense on the street ahead.

I lowered the nugget, considering her words. The thought of being left to walk home, especially after the close call last night, dampened my defiant bravado, but only for a moment. Then the feeling of the delicious, hot food in my hands reminded me that she did cave.

“So you were planning on picking me up again?” I asked, switching back to a challenging grin.

She turned her head slowly. Her dark eyes were utterly unreadable, locking onto mine. The line of her mouth was dangerous. “Get out, Alex.”

I sighed, knowing I’d pushed the supervillain to her absolute limit for one night. I grabbed my backpack and my food, and reached for the door handle. I pulled it once, then twice. Nothing. The child locks were still firmly engaged.

I leaned back into my seat, looking over at her with a thoroughly amused, challenging smirk. “You really give mixed signals, you know.”

Dr. Carter let out a sharp, irritated scoff. Without a word, she unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out into the damp night air. I watched through the glass as she strode purposefully around the front of the car, her heels clicking against the wet tarmac, before she threw my door open from the outside.

I stepped out onto the cold pavement, looking up at her as I adjusted my bag. “Thanks for the ride, the nuggets, and the door service, Dr. Carter.”

She didn't reply, her jaw tightly set as she shut the door behind me. She was back in the driver’s seat in an instant, and within two seconds, the Mercedes accelerated, vanishing into the darkness of the street.

I stood there, the smell of cheap wine and stale beer slowly replaced by the conflicting scents of frying oil and lingering hand sanitiser. I looked down at my palm. The ink was a smudged blue-black mess.