“So, where’s Chloe?” I ask, glancing toward the backseat as if she might materialize out of thin air.
“With her mom in Seattle for the next few days.”
“Ah, gotcha.” I swallow. Just the two of us, then.
“So, how was your Thanksgiving?” he asks.
“Quiet.” I adjust the bag in my lap, the paper crinkling too loud in the small space. “I stayed in town. Graded papers. Ordered enough Thai food that the delivery guy started greeting me by name.”
He glances at me as he drives, the streetlights castingintermittent shadows across his face. “Your family doesn’t do a big thing?”
“Oh, they do. Massive production every year. Caterers, professional photographer, my oldest sister Sloane directing everything like she’s staging a spread for Architectural Digest.” I shrug, even though the memory of the group chat photos still stings more than I want to admit. “I didn’t feel like being part of the production this year.”
“That sounds lonely,” he says, but there’s no judgment in it.
It was. It also would have been nice if a certain someone hadn’t gone completely MIA for two weeks, but I’m not about to admit I spent Thanksgiving weekend aggressively not thinking about him while eating my body weight in pad thai. Self-respect and all that.
“It wasn’t so bad,” I say. “Peaceful, actually. No one criticized my life choices or made passive-aggressive comments about my career path. Which is always nice.” That’s partially true at least. I glance over at him.
He smiles at me. “Yeah. It is.”
“What about you?” I ask. “How was the Midnight Thanksgiving?”
“Good,” he says. “Really good, actually. My brother Jack surprised us. He lives in Monaco, racing Formula 1, so we don’t see him much. But he and his wife, Lark, flew in without telling anyone. So the whole day was a bit extra special.”
I perk up at the name. “Wait, I feel like I’m only just making this connection. Is that Lark Reyes? The singer?”
He glances at me, and there’s that smile again. “You know her music?”
“Know it? I’ve listened to ‘Burning Bridges’ approximately four hundred times. It got me through—“ I catch myself before I can tumble deeper into the whole leaving-my-family’s-company emotional saga. “A rough patch.Anyway, I feel like I heard that she is married to a Formula 1 driver, but I never made the connection.”
“Yah, she and my brother Jack got married last year. And she’s from around here, so she and Maren have been friends for years. Long before her and Jack were even a thing.”
“Wow. I have her entire album on repeat. Her stuff is so good. I literally cried the first time I heard ‘Slow Burn.’ I can’tbelieveyou have actual celebrities in your family.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “To us she’s just Lark. But she’d love hearing that.”
“Well, tell her she has a very enthusiastic fan in Dark River who may or may not have learned all the words to ‘Until You Say Stay’ in the shower.” I pause. “Actually, don’t tell her that. That’s embarrassing. Forget I said anything.”
“Too late,” he says. “I’m absolutely telling her.”
I laugh, and so does he, and for a second it feels easy between us. Like we’re just two people who like each other, without all the complicated layers of parent and teacher and the weeks of careful distance that have been driving me slowly insane.
The car slows and my building comes into view through the window. The familiar brick and the soft glow from the lamp I left on. He pulls to the curb and puts the car in park. The engine idles and the heater hums softly.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat, wishing I didn’t care so much that this is over, wishing I wasn’t so stupidly drawn to him.
“Thanks for the ride,” I manage, forcing a smile as my fingers find the door handle.
He turns off the engine.
The sudden quiet is deafening. No heater, no rumble of the motor, nothing but the tick of cooling metal and the rush of blood in my ears. I stop moving, my hand still on the door, my whole body suddenly aware of how small this space is, how close he is, how the air between us has gone thick and electric.
“Why did you turn it off?” I ask in a whisper.
He stares straight ahead through the windshield, his handsstill on the steering wheel, his jaw set in a hard line. He exhales, slow and controlled, and then he turns to look at me, and the expression on his face makes my heart stop dead in my chest. Dark eyes, heated, and all that careful control stripped away to reveal something hungry underneath.
“Because I’m coming inside with you,” he says.
