She’s got her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth, like a little doofus. I feel like laughing.
“It’s pouring rain,” he adds. “I’ll drive you home. You don’t have a car, do you? Your parking spot at the arena is empty every day.”
I don’t have a car, because they’re expensive. Everything in Vancouver is expensive.
“I live three blocks away.”
“You’re not walking.” He keeps his eyes on the cat but his voice is firm. “And I’m guessing you’re not wearing your new coat, either.”
Busted, but not because I’m being obstinate or playing our little game. It’s too nice to wear, and the cashmere will get ruined in the rain.
“Do whatever you need to do, Jordan, and then I’m driving you and your cat home.”
CHAPTER 16
JORDAN
Tate’s car,it turns out, is a compact SUV by a Japanese manufacturer, dark green and inconspicuous. Very responsible and reliable, just like I thought he’d drive.
He opens the back door and sets the cat, who he has carried all the way here so she doesn’t get her paws wet, in the back seat. I reach for the passenger door, but he gets there first, holding it open and waiting until I’ve clicked my seatbelt to close the door.
In the back seat, the cat has already fallen asleep.
“Where am I going?” he asks when he gets in and turns the car on. He turns my seat warmer on and adjusts the vents so warm air is blowing at me, but I’m distracted by his sharp, clean scent.
“Jordan?” He taps me lightly on the arm.
“Hmm?”
He’s watching me with curiosity and a tiny smile, like I’m amusing or cute or something.
“Where am I going?”
“Alexander and Gore. Three blocks up.”
We drive in silence as I sneak glances at the way his hands grip the steering wheel.
“Here’s fine,” I say as we approach my building, and he parks in front and cuts the engine. “Thanks for the ride.” I open the door and get out, filling my lungs with clean air.
Finally, I can think.
Tate gets out of the driver’s side and opens the back door. “I’ll bring her up.”
“No,” I blurt out.
I don’t want him to see my crappy apartment. Tate Ward is the image of someone who has their life together. The evidence is everywhere—his job, his car, his clothes, his early morning wake-ups. Seeing my shithole apartment is going to reinforce everything he already thinks of me.
He raises an eyebrow, tucking the cat beneath his arm. She barely wakes. “She’s going to scratch you again.”
She will. She’s been aiming for my eyes lately, too.
Like he knows I don’t have an argument, Tate heads to the front door of my building, eyes all over the things piled out front.
I stop short. The area in front of the building is cluttered with stuff. A kitchen table. A ratty old couch. Boxes of haphazardly packed clothes and toiletries and dishes.
My stomach drops.My stuff.
Tate gives me a concerned look. “Did you forget your key?”
