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Still, not as terrible as thinking I might have something in common with Jameson Ashford.
Rain beads on the window, but the sound is drowned out by the rhythmic scrub of wipers.
“How long did it take you to hack my car?” he asks.
The change of subject has me glancing over. In the driver’s seat, he’s perfectly still, except his eyes flicking along the road and the little tic in his jaw.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Not bad.”
I frown. “How long did it take you to figure out that I limited your engine revs?”
I catch myself studying his darky, shiny hair. His straight nose. His full, hard mouth.
Stop looking at his mouth.
“Ten seconds.”
My system jolts.
Driving a car takes skill. Knowing one takes patience, dedication, humility. Not things I’d attribute to the arrogant asshole behind the wheel.
“You could’ve done more damage. Why didn’t you?” His voice is thoughtful.
It’s the first real question he’s asked me—no threat, no demand. Despite my reservations, I give him a real answer.
“I couldn’t destroy something so perfect.”
His eyes flick my way. Down my body, back up.
Oh fuck. Fuck me.
“The car!” I flush. “I meant the car. Not you, obviously.”
How much blood can pump through your face before you’re permanently red? Maybe the floor will open up and swallow me so I can stop living this humiliation.
“You can jump off a bridge,” I add.
“High one, I suppose. Choppy water.”
Jameson’s laughing at me. It’s not a Theo laugh, the earnest kind accompanied by an easy grin, but a mocking one that’s invisible to the naked eye.
It’s uncomfortable, being the subject of his interest, but for the first time I don’t feel the need to run away.
When we make it to school, he ignores his reserved spot and pulls around behind the building, finding a back alley. I start to unfasten my seat belt, but his hand closes around my wrist.
“I’m going to give you some advice.” His voice is stilted, as if he’s wrestling with his own judgment. “Fuck them.”
“Who?” I’m so focused on the feel of his strong fingers against my skin that I forget to flip him off, which is the appropriate response when Jameson Ashford deigns to meddle in your life.
“Everyone who stands in the way of what you want.”
Electricity shoots up my arm and settles into a low throb in my chest.
I don’t know who’s more startled, me or him. But when he blinks, I realize those eyes framed by impossibly dark lashes actually aren’t steel blue. They’re not purple blue like cornflowers either, nor the green blue of the ocean in a travel ad. Instead, they’re the warm, bright blue of a sky that’s cleared after a storm.
The thought comes out of nowhere, settles between my ribs like a second heartbeat that drowns out the first.
