The engine is idling, and we’re parked just below a streetlamp.
He is bathed in artificial light, making shadows fall over the sharp planes of his face. His eyes, even in the darkness, are intense as he just watches me. Waits.
I yank my hand back as if he’s burned me, but I don’t look away. Something about him makes me want to be bolder. Stronger. I want him to see me. Who I really am, not the needy wannabe date that his mom’s made me out to be.
“I just want you to know that I’m not in on whatever plan or scheme your mom has going on. I don’t want her to set me up with you. I mean, I had no idea that was on her mind. I just… I mean… You’re… You know…” All of a sudden, this definitely feels like high school. I have no clue what to say, and yet words keep coming, spilling past my lips and fighting one another as they come out.
Franco is looking at me with a combination of confusion and something else… Amusement, maybe? I don’t like it, and I can already feel the flush burning its way up my chest and leaving a feverish heat in my cheeks.
“I’m what?” he asks quietly.
“Excuse me?” I’m blinking and leaning away from him, but he’s leaning toward me. The beam of ugly light from the streetlamp falls over his features as he looks at me.
Really looks at me.
Suddenly, I’m speechless. My body feels warm; my hands shake. With every breath, I smell leather and smoke and pasta sauce, and the truck cab feels suddenly way too small to contain the energy, the whatever this is that I’m feeling. I’m quiet as I fumble behind me for the door handle.
“You said that I’m something, but you didn’t finish. So, what is it? What am I?” He shocks the heck out of me by reaching forward and tipping my chin up with two fingers.
His skin is hot and surprisingly rough and soft at the same time, and a bolt of electricity shoots through my limbs. I gasp a little, deep in my throat, and lick my dry lips.
Franco drops his hand and glares again, and I shake the moment off. Whatever that was, that chin-touch thing…it felt good. Too good. Like, I’m hot between my legs, and I’m going to ride my vibrator tonight thinking about those long, strong fingers. His intense blue eyes.
The stubble on his chin rough against my…
Oh hell.
The fact that I’m in a enclosed space with this man thinking about getting myself off to his fingers…
This night has officially gotten out of control.
“I’m going to go in,” I blurt out in a rush. “I just wanted to clear the air.” I scramble toward the door and practically fall onto the sidewalk.
I smooth down my sweater, trying to fix how I look on the outside in case I look as jumbled up and wild as I feel inside. I fumble for my keys, keeping my chin down.
No matter what, I’m not looking back.
He waits there, idling, until my trembling fingers unlock the dead bolt and the doorknob—two separate locks, and even with just one key, it feels like so many extra steps—and then I open the front door.
I flip on the hall light so he can see I made it inside and there are no killers waiting in the shadows. Once I’m inside, I lock the knob and dead bolt behind me, and then finally the headlights of his truck pull a U-turn in the street, and he drives back in the direction we came.
My heart is beating way too fast, and I’ve broken into a light sweat. I kick off my boots and head straight for the bathroom.
“That’s it,” I say. I knot my hair in a bun on the top of my head and dig in the bathroom vanity for my vibrator.
But then I shake my head and put the plastic toy back under the sink.
A bath and a steamy book are the only cure for these feelings.
Because for better or worse, I’ve got a pickup truck-sized crush on Franco.
5
FRANCO
“You goingto Latterature for some food?” When my buddy Jack shouts over the music, my heart stops for a second, like I’ve been caught stealing.
Which I kind of was.
