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I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Like that was even possible with his monumental ego.
But maybe he had a point. I was being rather harsh when the only things I knew about him were things I’d learned through media outlets, and who knew how much of that was the truth? Not to mention, it wasn’t every day fate gifted you the opportunity to go out with a superstar. At the very least, it might be fun to pick his brain.
I peek over at him. “If I play nice and cooperate, will you agree to have me home by ten-thirty?”
“Promise.”
I bit my lip before nodding, giving my approval.
“Okay.” He rubbed his jaw, then placed it on the gear shift, drawing my attention to the muscle in his forearm. “Let’s start with something basic. Do you have a boyfriend? And don’t say that’s too personal. It would take five minutes on social media to figure out.”
“I don’t,” I said, wrenching my gaze from his arms. “And, unlike some people, I don’t post everything about my life on social media.”
In fact, the only things I posted revolved around fashion—outfits I pulled together, reels about styles and the latest trends, along with some of my sketches and designs, with the rare snapshot of P and me. People followed me because they loved fashion, not because they wanted a glimpse inside my life.
“Not surprising,” he said.
I shot him an icy glare. “What’s that supposed to mean, not surprising?”
“It’s just, you’re a little . . . frigid.”
“Frigid?” My brows rose to my hairline. Did he really call me that? “Just because I didn’t swoon the moment I saw you or scream and throw a Sharpie at you to sign my boobs doesn’t mean I’m frigid. The real problem is you’re so used to girls throwing themselves at you that you have no clue what it looks like when one isn’t interested.”
“First, I resent that,” he said. “Only the part about girls throwing themselves at me is true.”
I huffed.
“And second, you just strike me as the type that values their independence more than romance.”
“For your information, I don’t want to date just anyone. I’m holding out for the right guy. Someone mature, a guy who knows what he wants and has ambition. Someone stable and grounded. Maybe even a little older.”
Thorne choked out a laugh, but I ignored it.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“I’ll be eighteen in a little over a month.”
“Yikes.”
“What?” I frowned.
“You’re jailbait. No touchy stuff tonight, okay? The last thing I need is to get nailed by the media for hooking up with a minor.”
I rolled my eyes. “Crap. You saw right through my plan to play it cool, then jump you when you least expect it.”
“Uh oh, watch out. That kind of talk is turning me on.”
“Gross. Why are guys such pigs?” I said, throwing my hands into the air.
Thorne laughed. “Because we’re walking flesh bags of testosterone.”
“Oh, speaking of flesh bags, now you’re turningmeon.”
“For real?” His eyes widened.
“No.”
He snorted. “So, do you graduate this year?”
