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As I stepped outside into a different section of the parking lot, rays of sunlight bathed my skin, replacing the chilly confines of the building, and the tangy scent of freshly cut grass replaced the stale iron scent of blood.
Hunter had graciously given me his suit jacket, so I was more covered, but it meant he distractingly had no shirt on. His chiseled lines seemed to glisten in the sunlight. The guy was such a spectacular specimen that he made the rest of us humans look like when it was our turn to be created, the universe was on a coffee break.
“Thank you for the clothes, but I’ll drive myself to the ER,” I said.
Luckily, my car wasoutsidethe police tape. No way in hell I’d let Hunter Lockwood see me exposed to one of my greatest fears: needles.
I loathed needles. Whoever the masochistic scientist was that came up with the idea to stab medicine into your body should face the jury of us needle-fearing patrons. The last time I had to get a shot, I almost threw up. Likegagging to the point of eyes wateringalmost throwing up, and that was from one prick. This time, I’d be stabbed repeatedly in my sensitive palm.
The barf forecast was high with a chance of fainting.
I’d rather shove my face into a beehive than have Hunter Lockwood witness the exorcist-level reaction I was probably about to have.
Hunter put his hands into his pockets, as if waiting for me to come to my senses.
Or surrender to his pheromones. One or the other.
“Look, like I said…it was really sweet of you to lend me your clothes and to help wash the blood off of me, but I feel a lot better now, so I’d prefer to drive myself.”
“Why’s that?” Hunter asked.
“For starters, I can take care of myself.”
“Of that I have no doubt. But you’re bleeding, Luna. I won’t allow you to drive yourself.”
Allowme?Did he hear his word choice there?“Look. Again. Thank you. But I’ve got this. So, I’ll see you later.”
I walked away from him, then wound through the cars of the parking lot until I reached my old clunker.
But the guy was even more stubborn than I’d given him credit for. He followed me and eyed my dilapidated 2007 Kia Spectra. Average retail price: $2,500. My price: $1,700, thanks to the driver’s side door being red while the rest of its body was an off-white, the rusted rims, the tears in the seats, and the smoke damage from the chain-smoker who owned it before me. But it got me from point A to point B and didn’t siphon my limited funds.
Hunter’s eyebrows arched up, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he let out an incredulous, “Wow.”
“We can’t all drive Aston Martins.”
He stood there, watching as I opened the door, pretending it didn’t sound like a slow-motion car accident of bent metal. I got inside, shut the door with a crunch, put my seat belt on, and shoved my key into the ignition.
Anxious to get out from under his stare.
When I turned the key, though, my engine groaned in protest.
No. Don’t do this to me. Not in front of Hunter.
It was on my to-do list to take it to the dealership to get looked at. It had been making a funny noise lately, but I didn’t have time to do it until next week. I tried to crank the engine again. And then again, but the universe had a wicked sense of humor.
I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against my steering wheel in despair.
Hunter knocked on the window with his knuckle. “May I give you a lift, Luna? Or do you prefer to ride to the ER with the tow-truck driver?”
Five minutes later, I was sitting inside Hunter Lockwood’s Aston Martin as he drove me to the hospital. I tried to call an Uber, but somehow, he won that argument, and here I was.
But it was fine. I had a new plan. I’d have him drop me off at the front doors, and I’d go inside and have my needle meltdown in private.
I just hoped I wasn’t getting blood on his seat. I had never been in a vehicle this fancy before. It looked like the black leather had been stitched by hand, as soft as velvet, and everything was covered in it—even the dashboard, for crying out loud. It was like being inside a leather onesie, coated in Hunter’s delicious cologne.
Because it wasn’t distracting enough, having him next to me, with his ripped muscles trying to kidnap my gaze.
I’d already completed my call to the prison. Predictably, they wouldn’t give me much more information on the phone—just confirmed there was a fight and that my dad would be okay. But the worst part of the phone call was when they said I had to wait until Sunday to see him because after he got out of the infirmary, he’d be spending twenty-four hours in solitary for his part in the altercation.
