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“I’m not tired.”
“I am.”
The covers are flying so fast from his body that I flinch. Stopping, his shoulders are straight and muscles are tense. “Don’t do that, Lark.”
“Don’t do what?” I ask, raising my chin as I cross my arms over my chest.
“I would never hurt you, so please don’t flinch.”
“Like I can help it,” I gripe. “It’s an involuntary reaction.”
“It’s distrust.”
Kicking out my hip, I plant my hand on it and push every one of his buttons. “It is what it is. Isn’t that what you say?”
He grabs his clothes, and says, “Fuck this.” He dresses as he moves to the door, and his pants are up by the time he leaves my room.
I hear Amanda say, “Hot damn,” and the sound of her door shutting. I’ll apologize to her later, but for now, I follow him. His pants are up, though the fly hangs open. Still shirtless, he pulls on his shoes and hops on one foot. Then he grumbles again, “Fuck this.” Pulling open the door, he doesn’t look back before walking out.
Wow. I stand there in shock, dumbfounded by the turn tonight took.
And I’m pissed.
How dare he treat me like I’m one of them, like I’m supposed to just let him follow someone else’s dream and not say something? Fisting my hands, I lock the bolt, then go back to my room and shut the door. I lean against the back of it, and my blood is boiling. I go to open a window, needing the fall air to help me cool down, but stumble over something sharp. Looking back, I see what stabbed my foot—keys.
Harbor’s keys, to be precise. I recognize the Maserati fob on the keychain.
Who’s laughing now?
Not me because I’m still too mad to find the humor in him being stuck outside without his keys to help him avoid having a real conversation with me.
My phone buzzes on the desk and his name flashes on the screen before it goes dark again. It seems his arrogance still gets the better of him. But I’m not going to stoop to his level.
With the keys digging into the palm of my hand, I walk out of my room again, unlatch the bolt, and cut through the entry, landing outside on the sidewalk and looking around for him.
I’m left shocked again when I see him ridingmybike down the street.How dare he!
Unbelievable.He’ll let his pride win before resolving things with me? Good to know now before I sink even deeper into this relationship.
My anger morphs as my stubbornness kicks in. I stomp in my bare feet and the cold air straight down the path to his vehicle. I’ve seen him unlock it several times and don’t struggle with that part. It’s the starting of the engine that I can’t figure out. I sit in the driver’s seat, the leather chilly against the back of my thighs and ass, searching for where I stick the key.
A button labeled “engine” stares back at me, so I put my foot on the brake and press it. The car purrs to life and music streams from the speakers. I didn’t take him for a rock guy, but I guess we haven’t dated long enough to find some of these things out.
Thank God it’s an automatic. I never did master my dad’s truck. It was just easier to ride my bike everywhere.
I put my seat belt on and then shift into drive. This car has power, and if I’m not careful, she’ll take over and I’ll lose control. Looking ahead, I don’t even see Harbor anymore. I drive slowly at first as I get accustomed to handling it. I stop at the stop sign at the corner and then keep rolling forward. I know the general direction he lives in, although I’ve never been there.
Scanning every street I pass, there’s no sign of him until I get a block shy of downtown. He’s sitting at a red light, waiting for it to turn green. How does that even make sense when he just stole my bike?
I don’t know why I find it funny but seeing that big guy sitting on my pale-blue bike with that white seat, a few streamers still attached to the handlebars fluttering in the breeze, puts a smile on my face. I roll up behind him, keeping enough distance to keep him free from my headlights, and then lay on the horn, which startles him so much that he almost falls off.
Upset and flailing his arms, he swings the bike around and moves into the breadth of light from the car, saying all kinds of things that I can’t hear over the music filling the interior.
The light turns green, but he stays exactly where he is. With no other cars in the area, I pull up next to him and roll down my window. “You stole my bike.”
“You stole my car.”
With the accusations thrown out, our eyes narrow as if we’re determined to win a staring contest. Neither one of us blinks. But we can only do this for so long, so I blink and let him win this round. “You left me because I called you out on that bullshit.”
