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“It’s linked to my phone.” He tilts his chin to the device, hanging on its stand between us. “The password’s 082302.”
I shoot him a look, surprised he gives it to me so readily.
“What? It’s not like you couldn’t crack into it if you wanted to.”
True. “I don’t have any reason to want to check what’s on there,” I reply, reaching out to enter the combination. I can’t resist the jab, so I add, “I’m just not that interested in you.”
He laughs. “Ouch.”
“Is that your birthday? The twenty-third of August?”
“Yep. Why, are you planning on giving me a late present?”
“I can’t believe you’d be so dumb as to use your birthday for a password. Anyone can guess that.”
“Well, I don’t keep videos of my conquests on there, unlike some, so it doesn’t matter who pokes their noses in there.”
I open his Spotify app and research a specific song.
Camden’s paying for premium, so once I find it, I get to access it directly, and forward it until Gwen Stefani’s voice is loudly screaming “Fuck You” through the fancy speakers of his car.
He laughs as I sing along.
“Is that an invitation, princess?”
I lower the volume.
Only then do I notice that we’ve driven right past the turn we should have taken to go to my apartment.
“Wait, I live that way.”
“I know.”
My heart drops. “Where are you taking me?”
The corner of his lip lifts.
What’s the worst he could do to me, I wondered moments ago. Yet I dismissed the concern. I can’t believe I got into this car. What is wrong with me? “Camden…”
“I’m taking you home, Morgan.”
Oh, hell no.
“Stop the car. Stop the fucking car, or I swear—” I try the door, finding it locked.
He laughs. “You’d honestly leap out of the car? God, you’re a danger to yourself.”
Like staying with him is any safer than jumping out of a moving vehicle. “Let me go!”
“Not until someone looks at those feet of yours. You don’t want to quit that stupid, minimum wage job, fine. I’m allowing it. The flip side is, someone has to make sure you don’t damage yourself permanently.”
“You’reallowing it? Who the hell do you think you are?” I would strangle him if he wasn’t driving.
“I’m Camden Hunt, sweetheart. And yes, I’mallowingyou to work. One phone call, and I can get that café closed for good—or threaten to do so unless your boss lets you go.”
He doesn’t mean that, does he?
My instincts tell me I don’t want to test him on this. If I question him, he might do something stupid just to prove he can. Instead, I force myself to take a steadying breath, and when I can speak without snapping, I tell him, “You can’t just take me away. I have commitments—work, school.”
