“Fine,” I hissed. “Let’s get this over with.”
A minute later, the car was on, and he was cranking the heat. The stark temperature difference had me shivering, teeth clacking together. He clicked a button, and delicious warmth began to emanate from beneath me like nothing I’d ever felt.
Of course he’d have buttery leather seats that heated your ass.
It washeaven.
It felt so good after being on my feet for hours and then trudging through the cold and rain even for just a few blocks, I moaned as I sank deeper into the seat.
Startled, I looked over to see if he’d heard.
He was watching me, face half-illuminated by the streetlight. His eyes were dark, but not in the mean way his friends always looked at me.
It was in that way I sometimes caught him looking at me when they weren’t around. The way that made my stomach pinch.
I faced forward again, shivering despite the heat. We were still parked, and I watched as a crackling burst of light zigzagged down the sky, illuminating the truck for a brief moment.
“Here.” He reached for my jacket, and I flinched away. With a huff of frustration, he snarled, “I’m just trying to help. Your jacket is soaked through, take it off.”
He was right. This time when he reached over, I let him slip the sodden sleeves off my arms. After hanging it up on the back of his headrest, he turned to me.
Wet hair was stuck to my face, I was shaking from the cold. I must have looked like a pathetic stray dog.
Leaning over to reach for something behind my seat, he came back with his letterman jacket. With a stern look—a warning not to freak out—he gently draped it over my front.
Even though I didn’t know where this version of Sawyer came from, I wanted to trust it. None of the usual alarm bells were ringing in my mind to stop it.
I pulled the jacket up over me, letting the collar cover the bottom of my face. I got a big whiff as I did so. Chlorine and boy smell.
It . . . didn’t make me gag.
He was still watching me. “Fuck, you look awful.”
I was used to his insults, but something about him uttering it in the quiet empty cab, without an audience, stung more than normal.
He turned his whole body toward me, one hand on the dash, the other on the back of my seat, and frowned down at me. “Why were you walking home in the rain at this time of night?”
I looked at him over the top of his jacket. Part of me wanted to tell him to fuck off again, that it was none of his business. But something stopped me. I was in his truck, after all, covered in his jacket.
If he could play nice, so could I.
I said, “I do it all the time,” but it came out muffled.
Eyes still narrowed, the look in them shifted from frustration to amusement. The corner of his mouth lifted into a half-cocked smile.
He raised his hand and lowered the collar down, tucking it below my chin. “What was that?”
I ignored the backflip my stomach did. “I do it all the time. I work at The Square.”
“You know, you could get sick walking home in weather like this.”
I rolled my eyes without heat. It was exactly the kind of thing a privileged guy like Sawyer would say. As if I didn’t know the risks I took.
“Don’t have much choice,” I muttered.
“What?”
“I don’t have a rich daddy to buy me a truck,” I snapped.
