“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Seat belt.”
She clicks it into place, still watching me like she’s dissecting me piece by piece. Then she parrots her location. Damn, I still cannot believe that she lives in East Pointe.
I pull onto the road. Her scent fills the car within minutes, sweet and heavy, like cherries smashed too ripe. It clings, crawls into my lungs. Mortification burns as I adjust in my seat, trying to hide the hard line straining against my zipper.
Traffic snarls near the bridge, rain slowing everything to a crawl. The car grows quiet, too quiet, except for the soft hitch of her breath and the thud of rain on the roof. My mind won’t stop replaying the vision of her bra through the wet tank, the way her lip catches between her teeth.
When we stop at the light, I grab my phone again, call the garage, arrange for the Civic to be towed. She thanks me softly, words brushing over me like fingertips.
“Of course,” I say, voice hoarse.
But the silence comes back, heavier. And all I can think about is how close she is, how warm the air feels now despite the storm, and how badly I’m losing control.
9
Chloe
Idon’tknowwhat’sworse—the storm outside or the one inside me.
Rain slams against the windshield, harder and harder until the world beyond the glass is nothing but blurry gray streaks, but all I can focus on is the boy sitting behind the wheel.
Miles Thatcher.
Miles fucking Thatcher.
I’ve barely known him for more than a couple of days—only glimpses, really, the way you catch sight of a comet in the night sky and know it’s rare, something you’re lucky to see once. Now I’m in his car, sitting beside him, soaking wet in my tank top and skirt with my bra completely visible, and I cannot get my lungs to behave.
He’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. His hands are huge, veins raised, the knuckles looking bruised as if he spends too much time fighting. His gray eyes are lit faintly by the dash, shifting from the rain to the crawling traffic. They’re so goddamn mesmerizing it’s unfair. And then there’s the scar—not deep, but sharp enough to make him look even rougher, like a line carved just to remind you that he’s been through hell and survived.
And he’s here. Driving me home.
No, not even driving. Stuck with me in traffic. A rainstorm locking us in together, giving me too much time to notice everything about him, every detail I should not be staring at.
I feel my eyes drifting again, tracing the hard set of his jaw, the sharp line of his profile. And then—shit—he turns, catches me.
I snap my gaze to the rain-smeared glass, cheeks burning.
I tug my tank down, like that’ll fix anything.
“So…” I start, just as his low voice breaks the silence.
We speak at the same time, words colliding.
“Sorry,” I blurt, heat crawling up my neck. “You go first.”
He nods, expression unreadable, then clears his throat. “How are you liking Pointe University so far?”
The question surprises me. It’s so normal, so casual, I almost forget how hard my pulse is racing. “It’s good,” I say, twisting my damp hair over my shoulder. “There are more students than my other school, but everyone’s been really nice. My old school didn’t even have hockey, but I was a cheerleader in high school, so… I might join here.”
A sound rumbles from his chest. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a comment. More like a grunt, short and dismissive.
I fumble. “Do you… like hockey?”
Oh my God. Lame. Lame. Lame. Of all the things to ask him, I go for the most obvious one. I want to curl into the seat and disappear.
He scratches his jaw, eyes flicking to mine, then back to the windshield. “Sometimes,” he says. His voice is low, rough. “It’s good. Helps with a lot.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and before I can figure out how to ask, he leans on the horn, the sharp sound cutting through the muffled patter of rain.
