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It’s a weird comment, and I’m not sure I fully understand what he’s trying to say. Perhaps like everyone else in the Walsh House, he woke up with a hangover? Idle chitchat isn’t on the menu this morning, which is fine by me.
I have a fucking hairbrush to get out of my hair, toothpaste to scrape off my shirt,andI still have to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to do with this thin strip of satin that almost looks like it could be a tie.
But none of it’s possible while I’m holding on to the cart for dear life. “Come on, slow down!”
Owen makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, then comes to a dead stop. I’m still busy rolling my eyes at him when he comes around to the back and motions for me to get in behind the wheel.
“You wantmeto drive?”
He makes as if to grab me and drag me into the front seat, but I hop off before he can touch me.
“I’ve never driven one of these—”
“Easier than it looks.”
“But—”
“Look, the longer you stand here and argue, the faster we have to go to get there on time.” His eyes are darker this morning, almost a gunmetal gray.
“Fine,” I snap. I slide into the driver’s seat and reluctantly turn on the engine. Owen sits beside me, showing me how to operate the golf cart before pointing me down the road like I’ve suddenly been struck blind.
I’m just about to take a corner when Owen tugs at the handle of the hairbrush, and I almost flip over the golf cart in shock.
“Jesus, watch the road!”
“Leave my hair alone.”
“Why the hell do you think I’m letting you drive?” he growls, tugging at my hair. “You arrive there looking like this, they’ll be calling you Hairbrush Girl until the day you fucking graduate.”
I stare at him for a moment, flabbergasted. I didn’t think he couldbethis nice, but he’s actually… looking out for me. In a way that’s bordering on sweet.
“Oh. Thanks.”
“This isn’t for your benefit. Think I want to be associated with Hairbrush Girl for the rest of the semester? Just drive.”
We both jolt back as I press the gas. I concentrate as hard as I can on the road, and not the fact that Owen Dalton—the guy whospankedme yesterday—is busy untangling a brush from my hair.
“How the fuck did this happen?” he mutters.
“My hair tangles easily.”
“No, this took effort.”
I suppress a smile. “Is it coming out?”
“I wouldn’t take a haircut off the table just yet.”
I peek to the side. Owen is in full uniform too, but he wears it like a second skin. It’s a perfectly tailored black and gold blazer, and a tie with the most immaculate Windsor knot I’ve ever seen.
He sees me looking, and gives my hair an extra-hard tug. “Eyes on the road.”
“Ow!”
“Christ, you didn’t make this much of a fuss when I spanked you.”
My cheeks start heating, and I’m desperate to change the subject. “So, uh, what… uh… what’s your favorite food?”
“Really?” he grumps. “That’s what you want to talk about?”
