Page 44

Across the room, Cam nearly choked on the piece of salami she'd been eating from the charcuterie board. "What?"

"You'll drive Harper home. You're going the same direction anyway."

"I am?"

"You are. I've decided."

"That's not how geography works," I said, even though I was definitely more than a little drunk and geography felt like a very abstract concept. "I'm in the Arts District. Cam probably lives in some luxury high-rise built somewhere inside of a gym.”

“House. In the hills," Cam corrected, still looking alarmed. "But it's not a problem. I can drive you."

"You don't have to. We’re already in the hills and I’m like twenty minutes from here. I can get a SHAU4. I don't want you to trouble yourself."

"It's no trouble." Cam's voice was carefully controlled, but I could see the tension in her shoulders. The awareness.

"Really, I—"

"Harper. It's fine." Cam set down her drink. "Let me grab my jacket."

I watched Laine carry a snoring Mia out to her car, feeling betrayed by my best friend's inability to hold her liquor. Destiny, Morgan, and Alex were already gone, having left an hour ago with promises to see me at the next game ("You're coming to games now," Destiny had declared. "It's decided."). Isla was grinning like she'd orchestrated this whole situation, which she absolutely had.

"I know what you're doing," I told her as we both watched Cam open the coat closet by the front door.

"I'm facilitating transportation."

"You're meddling."

“Hey, I’m efficient."

"I'm onto you."

Isla winked. “I’m counting on it."

Cam reappeared with her jacket over her arm, looking resigned to her fate. "Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

We said our goodbyes, walked out to Cam's car in silence. She drove a sporty, sleek black BMW—because of course she did.

"Nice car," I said, buckling in and tapping my address into her GPS. The vodka was making me feel warm and hazy and brave.

"Thanks."

"Very you. Expensive and intimidating."

"I'm not intimidating. We’ve already established you are.”

"You're six-three and you have resting murder face. You're absolutely intimidating."

"Resting murder face?"

"It's like resting bitch face, but more intense. You look like you're constantly planning someone's demise."

Cam started the car, and I was suddenly very aware of the enclosed space, the leather seats, her hands on the steering wheel. Long fingers. Capable hands. Hands that had held my wrist on the patio until my pulse had stuttered.

"I'm not planning anyone's demise," she said.

"That's exactly what someone planning a demise would say."