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“When…?” he repeats.
“When I was in high school.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to that story?”
“Because there is.”
“Well.” He slouches lower in his seat, flicking down the mirror to inspect his hair again. “I’ve got time.”
“So do I. Doesn’t mean I’m sharing.”
The mirror snaps shut. “I thought we were bonding, Sigrid. Talking, as friends do.”
“Pretend friends, as you’ve so helpfully reminded me. So pretend I told you.”
A huff of air, the shadow of a laugh, leaves him. “Touché.”
Uncomfortable quiet settles between us. I shift, wincing because of the bruise again, and glance in the side-view mirror. I need to get into the left lane for my next turn. Glancing in the mirror one more time as I change lanes, I catch my appearance and feel my stomach knot. My hair looks like a windblown flame. There’s a blob of strawberry milkshake on my shirt.
Suddenly, I am keenly aware that, having showered and changed, Sebastian Gauthier now looks much better than I do.
Not exactly a good start to Project Ziggy Bergman 2.0, if we’re seen when we’re out—which is the whole point—me drab and messy in my athleticwear, Sebastian sharp in black jeans and a soft chambray button-up that he changed into before letting me inside his house, then herding me toward his garage.
I shift in my seat again, uneasy. “Maybe we should make a stop first.”
He glances my way, eyebrows arched. “What kind of stop?”
“At my place.”
“Why?”
“I need to wear something different.”
His glaze slides down my body like an X-ray. “And why’s that?”
“Because maybe, now that you’re wearing more than your underwear and don’t smell like the walking dead, I feel a little underdressed.”
“And what are you going to change into? Another pair of soccer shorts? A new athletic shirt? It’s not like you wear anything else.”
I scowl, hating that he’s right. All I wear is workout clothes. Ever since I grew another inch and filled out right when I started at UCLA, when all I did was hustle between soccer games, practices, conditioning, and classes, replacing the not inexpensive sensory-friendly street clothes I’d outgrown seemed pointless when I knew I’d barely have time to wear them.
“Do you even own anything besides athleticwear?” He’s pressing right into one of my sore spots. It’s hard to dress a six-one female body, let alone one with a ton of sensory aversions to seams, tags, and numerous fibers.
Heat hits my cheeks. I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache. “Yes,” I say coolly, taking the turn that will get us to my apartment. “I have throw blankets that I wear when only underwear doesn’t cut it.”
His mouth drops open. “A sarcastic dig from the angelic Sigrid?”
“I’m not an angel.”
“That’s certainly clear, after that zinger.” His voice is lower now, tinged with something I don’t recognize.
I glance his way as I stop at the red light and catch him staring at me. “What?”
Eyes pinned on me, he leans an elbow against the window, knuckles dragging across his mouth. “Just…realizing what you’ve been hiding under that sweet, shy surface this whole time.”
“I knew I was onto something with the prim-librarian bit.” Sebastian shuts the door to my apartment behind him, eyeing up my bookshelves.
I throw him a glare as he pointedly steps around the pile of books I don’t have room for yet, at least until I assemble my next bookshelf. “I’d say make yourself comfortable,” I tell him, “but I’m not terribly concerned for your comfort right now.”
