“Who do you belong to?”
My brows rise slowly. “Belong to?” The skepticism in my voice causes his damaged lip to curl into a small smile.
He leans back against the counter, seemingly settling in. “Someone put you on driveway duty. Who might that have been?”
Driveway duty.As though he plucked the words from my head.
Pressing my lips together in distaste but managing not to frown, I say, “That would be Clare.”
“Ah.” He scrutinizes my wrists, and I know immediately he’s checking for the Briar Club bracelet I don’t have yet. “A new recruit, is it?”
Licking my lips, I nod.
He runs a hand through his hair and leans toward me. How the hell do his eyes sparkle like aquamarines? Is he a member of the fucking fae?
“What’s your name?”
“Why?” I say slowly.
“The usual reasons. Plus some others.” He winks at me.
When I fail to answer, one end of his busted lip twitches. I really want to lean in too… to taste his bloody mouth. Which just goes to show the Allendales are probably right about me. Deep down, I’m not one of them. I’m a girl who’s drawn to actual bad boys. The beautiful ones who were born cool enough to make girls want to drop their panties from a sexy look.
God, I’m spiraling. Since getting to college, I’ve been envious of girls who are free to hook up with the handsome guys we meet at parties. That would be too risky for me, since I’m not the only Allendale on campus. If I did anything that would reflect poorly, it might get back to our family.
“I’ll go first.” He presses a hand against his bare chest. “Jamie O’ Rourke.” He blinks slowly, anything but innocent.
“Sawyer.” My name’s out before I can rethink letting myself engage.
“First name Tom?” He drops his hands, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “As a lad, I enjoyed your book.”
Giving in to his charm, a small smile emerges. “Sawyer is my first name.”
“Tell me, Sawyer, last name first, why do you smell like chlorine?”
“Do I?” After a beat, my surprise gives way to understanding. “It’s hair dye. I was trying to even out my color.” I tug on the ends of my processed hair, embarrassed at being called out on my moment of box-dye rebellion.
“Hmm.” Reaching out, his fingertip touches a dark magenta strand that hangs over my ear. “You look like a cranberry.”
I roll my eyes, embarrassment giving way to amusement. “Yes, I know.”
“You thought the death of Delores left an opening for you?”
“The death of who?” I swallow hard and wonder how I failed to notice this guy on campus.
“Ah. Too American to know.” His hand drops, and he takes a step back.
The distance allows me to breathe easier, but his dismissive tone hits one of my worst triggers.
“Youlook like you’re auditioning for aFight Clubreboot. Bloody. No shirt.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Too bad you’re not pretty enough to play the Brad Pitt character.”
A smirk emerges and warms me to my toes. “I’m not, no. Curse of my life being born so unattractive.”
I love that he’s so easygoing about being teased. My family is so stuffy. Sarcasm is completely wasted on them.
“Have any more constructive criticism you’d like to share?” The challenge in his eyes makes me want to slam my palms against his chest to shove him away, or grab his lapels to pull him closer.
I purse my lips into a fish pout. “How long have you got?”
