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“Whoa.” I lean away from him, even if my instincts tell me to get closer, place my hand against his arm, squeeze, and feel his strength. Feel his power. Just feelhim. “You don’t have to get mad about it.”
“Stop putting yourself down,” he says, then releases a long breath.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“You’re sort of acting like I should,” I mutter. “You seem pretty pissed.”
“It’s just… you don’t need to criticize yourself. If you want to sing, sing. If you’re not where you want to be, you can work to improve.”
We don’t say anything for a while. His explosion has left me confused and also curious. Whydoeshe care if I criticize myself? He’s clearly interested in me physically, which is crazy enough. With how passionate he just got, he may be interested in me emotionally, too.
“We can think of another alibi,” Elio says.
“I’m probably wrong about the look Russel gave me anyway. I’m probably reading way too much into that.”
“I’m not taking that risk,” he growls.
He’snot taking that risk, implying he’d care if something happened to me. At first, I thought this came back to the Good Samaritan thing. Now, it seems a whole lot more significant than that.
“Maybe we could try the singing,” I murmur. “What type of music does your dad like?”
“Love songs,” Elio says, with a wry smile, watching the road but really looking into the past. He’s got a dreamy look on his face as though he’s disappearing into a memory. “He always used to say that love songs are the best type for hard men. It reminds them that there’s more to life. It reminds them that it’s okay to be soft sometimes in the right contexts and with the right people. Do you know any love songs?”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. A background track in my mind is whispering that I should be thinking about Mom. I am endlessly wondering, but I shouldjustbe thinking about Mom, not this connection, not my embarrassment.
“What is it?” he says.
“What’swhat?” I ask.
“Your face just told a whole story.”
“Maybe you should watch the road.”
He laughs huskily. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it feels like a proud laugh. “Is it strange, Scarlet, that I like it when you talk back to me?”
“Maybe you’re just not used to it.”
“True,” he replies. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“It’s just… I’ve written a few love songs. That’s all.”
He pulls the car up to the side of the road. We’re in the middle of a residential area, a neighborhood a cut above ours. This is the kind of place that doesn’t have people gathered on every corner, nobody warming their hands by a barrel. It’s quiet.
“Let’s hear one, then,” he says.
“Are you serious? No way.”
He smirks. “I didn’t ask you, Scarlet. Sing one of your love songs for me.”
I fold my arms, glaring at him and almost smilingagain. This attraction must be on an entirely different level, so intense I’m able to smile at him now.Mom, Mom, Momshould be the only thing on my mind.
“This will help find your mom,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “The alibi will keep you safe, giving me the time I need.”
“Are they really going to believe you hired a live-in singer?” I ask.
“Yes,” Elio says confidently, reaching over and touching my leg. A tantalizing tingle dances up my thigh and teases my core. “That’s how rich assholes like us live.”
