He follows my gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ha. Nice try. That is a pretty red car, but it’s not mine. Mine’s just behind it.” He shrugs, easy and confident. “Though, for the record? My car’s worth more than any fancy Italian sports car—at least to me.”
As we walk a little closer, a red pickup truck comes into view, and my stomach sinks a little.
“Oh.” The word comes out flat and disappointed, but not in the truck. I’m disappointed in myself for assuming, and being exactly the kind of person I hate.
Why am I so obnoxious around him? Why do I immediately assume the worst?
I immediately judged him for being some rich playboy, and here I am, getting proven wrong, yet again.
“Sorry if it's not fancy enough for you,” Scotty says, his voice tight, and I get it. At this point, it’s deserved. I can admit I’ve probably been a little harsh on the guy.
“That's not it.” I purse my lips, not knowing what else to say. Admitting I'm wrong is hard. Always has been, and I guess it's partly to do with how dismissive my parents were about my dream of becoming an actor when they pushed my sister enough to become an Olympian.
He doesn't press me further. Instead, he throws his gym bag onto the truck bed and opens the door for me. Offering me his hand, I glance down at it before grabbing the sides of the truck. “I'm good. I can get in on my own.”
Scotty chuckles as I brush past him, only for me to slip on the first step. His hand is immediately on my back, balancing me, and the heat from it radiates through my spine.
“You're really finding it tough to accept any help from me, aren't you?”
I don't answer.
“I know you probably can get up on your own, but as you've just learned, the steps are a little slippery, and we’ve already had one fountain incident. Let’s not add ‘fell out of my truck’ to your list of Scotty-related disasters.”
He offers me his other hand, and I reluctantly take it. When our hands connect, the same warmth radiating up my spine starts to build in my chest, and for some godforsaken reason, I smile. Scotty's watching me, so I know he sees it, but I quickly mask it with a frown before stepping up to the well-worn brown leather seats.
When I’m seated, I show him my palm as an invitation to get my bag back.
“Here you go, Princess.” He plops the bag on my lap and shuts the door.
As he rounds the truck, I take in a deep breath, feeling his presence all around me. It smells woody with a tiny hint of spice, just like his cologne.
“You ready?”
“Yup,” I say as I show him my phone with the address on it. “This is where we’re going.”
He leans over to look at the screen before he takes it out of my hand to bring it closer.
“This is the address?” he asks slowly, his fingers flexing against my phone. “Yeah? Is there a problem?”
“Nope.” He hands the phone back to me and starts the engine. “It’s all good.”
It certainly doesn’t sound ‘all good.’
“Scotty, if you don’t want to take me, I can still—”
“I’m taking you,” he says firmly, and I have enough sense not to question it.
We pull out of the parking lot, and I notice he keeps glancing at me with this weird expression. Not the usual flirty smirk or even the annoyed look he gets when I insult him. This is different. Concerned? Protective?
“What?” I finally ask.
“Nothing.”
“You're being weird.”
“I'm not being weird.”
“You're gripping the steering wheel like you're trying to strangle it.”
