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“Stepsister,” Trevor and I respond at the same time.
“Oh.”
We all three make our way down the driveway.
“Hey,” Trevor says, turning back to us. “Do me a favor? Drive her to school? I might be able to grab a decent breakfast before work.”
“Sure,” says Connor.
I reply, trying to get out of it, “No, wait.” Because the last time I was in the confines of Connor’s car I almost lost all my senses. “His car…” I get stuck for words and idiotically come up with: “His car smells…” But it comes out a question, and I wish I could rewind time, or I don’t know, disappear into thin air.
“My car does not smell,” Connor says defensively.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that,” I admit. “It doesn’t.”
Trevor’s eyes narrow. “How do you know what his car smells like?” Then his face lights up with a stupid shit-eating grin. “Wait, is Connor the Some Guy From School?”
“Trevor!” I screech. “Shut. Up!”
Trevor laughs, his head thrown back as he opens the door of his truck. “Go easy on her,” he tells Connor. “She’s on her period. Apparently, it’s a heavy flow.”
I die.
Right there.
On my driveway.
Dead.
* * *
The first thing Connor does when we get into his car is reach for his gym bag in the back and spray deodorant everywhere. I die my second death of embarrassment and cover my face with my hands. “Sorry. Your car doesn’t smell!” I laugh out.
“Uh huh. Sure,” he responds. He’s smiling, though, eyeing me sideways as he starts the car. Then he coughs, waves a hand in front of his face, the deodorant getting to him. He winds down the window. I try to do the same. “Yours doesn’t work,” he says, clearly proud of himself. He sprays the can directly on me.
“Connor!” I squeal.
He does it again. “Sucks to be you.”
Another spray.
I attempt to shield myself, but it’s useless. “I said I was sorry!”
His chuckle reverberates throughout my entire body. “Okay,” he says, dropping the can on his lap. He offers me his pinky, giving me the same deep-dimpled smile that had me losing my mind the first time I saw it. “Truce?”
“Truce,” I respond, linking my finger with his. His touch is warm, soft. I’m almost tempted to take his entire hand and hold it in mine. But that… that would be crazy. Right? Right.
We stop at a red light, and he turns to me. “I researched that Blanch Tyler what’s-her-face.”
“Moore.”
“Yeah, her. Man, she’s…”
“My hero.”
“Your hero?” he asks, incredulous.
“I don’t know. There’s something about having that level of control over men that makes me…”
