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Stop thinking about his hair, Kay.
Then he slides into my tiny car, his shoulders wider than the seat, and I stop thinking about his hair because I’m only too aware of his face, and his body, and his male musk filling my senses.
Why did I think I could put my feelings on pause even for an hour-and-a-half drive, with him beside me? God only knows.
“Thank you for this,” he says quietly as I pull off, his voice barely audible over the Thirty Seconds to Mars album I have playing.
Music is a good buffer, so I leave the volume up.
“It’s on my way anyway.” I bite my lip as I slow down and stop at a traffic light. That didn’t come out the way I wanted it. “I hope your mom will be okay.”
“Me too.”
I hope he’ll say more, but he is quiet as we drive out of town and get on the interstate, fiddling with his phone.
I let him be for a while, catching glimpses of his handsome profile as I drive. His jaw is clenched like he’s pissed off, or in pain, and I want to tell him I’m sorry, and that he has to explain what he meant, and that this is stupid, and we have to talk.
But my courage fails me.
Then he says it for me. “I’m sorry, Kay. For disappointing you.”
And my courage returns in a flare of heat. “You haven’t disappointed me.”
He turns my way, his mouth twisting in a grimace. “Sure I did. I should’ve told you what a fuck-up I am from the start instead of wasting your time.”
>
I lower the music. “You’re not a fuck-up. And I wouldn’t say sex with you was a waste of time.”
Oh God. Mouth on autopilot. Again.
But his lips curl up in a faint smile. “It was good, huh?”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
And my girly parts totally agree with me. It was phenomenal sex. But that’s not the discussion we should be having right now.
“You were saying you were sorry,” I remind him, hoping he will finally tell me more, but he’s grinning now with a hint of canine and a sparkle in his eyes.
Ow, my ovaries. He’s too sexy for my car. God, if his sadness breaks my heart, that boyish cocksureness will be my downfall.
And I should focus on talking about this matter that’s tearing us into different directions, when all I want is to meet him in the middle.
For more sex, hopefully. And maybe something more?
Focus, Kay.
“You told me you caused a kid to die. What really happened, Ocean?” I chew on my lip. If I don’t stop, it’ll be a bloody mess. “I should have said something that night, after you told me about yourself. But you didn’t explain. You start talking about yourself and then stop, every time. You drop puzzles on me and then leave me to solve them. Only I can’t, not without clues. I want to know you. I want to know what you meant. Who died, and why? How is that your fault? Why does your brother hate you? What’s wrong with your mom? Why can’t you just tell me?”
He’s doing that wide-eyed thing again. Okay, maybe I shocked him a little with my mouth-diarrhea.
“Why do you want to know me?” He swallows hard, his throat clicking.
“Because I like you. Because I believe you’re a nice guy. And because you’re driving me crazy with your refusal to talk!”
He looks away, his mouth tightening. “I checked you out on Facebook,” he says. “Just wanted to know more about you.”
