“I could be with any girl on campus if I wanted.”
The disgust coils in my stomach, the sheer arrogance of it grating against every nerve. And yet, the memory of his eyes, dark, piercing, and entirely too knowing, lingers. He sees too much. The control I cling to so tightly, the perfection I project, the reckless need to ride fast and leave everything behind. He saw it all, and I hate him for it.
As I round the corner, I see his truck, stopping me in my tracks. The passenger door is open, blocking the sidewalk, forcing me to acknowledge him. Diego leans casually against the frame, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark jeans. The dusky orange glow of the evening sky highlights the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones.
His dark hair is tousled as if he ran a hand through it too many times. A form-fitting sweater molds to his muscular chest and arms, and bad boy scuffed boots complete the look. Every inch of him oozes effortless sex appeal and infuriating confidence.
I should have known something was up by how quiet and detached he was in class today. Not a word, not a smirk, just him sitting there, his gaze distant and unreadable.
His eyes find mine now, steady and unyielding. My pulse stumbles despite my best efforts to ignore it. He straightens, pushing off the truck with an effortless grace that makes it impossible not to notice the breadth of his shoulders under the expensive cashmere.
“Get in the truck, Isabella.”
The command hangs in the air, as sure and deliberate as the man delivering it. My stomach twists, heat rushing up my neck as its audacity hits me. I should walk away, ignore him, and keep moving toward my car. But my feet don’t cooperate, rooted to the pavement as his words linger.
“What are you doing here?”
My voice is sharper than I intend, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. He doesn’t flinch. His expression is unreadable as he steps closer. The space between us shrinks, the cool autumn breeze carrying the faint scent of his cologne. Woodsy, clean, and entirely too distracting.
“Isabella.”
His voice is low and steady, contrasting the chaos swirling inside me. His hand gestures toward the open door, an unspoken invitation I know I shouldn’t accept.
“I’m not getting in your truck,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction, wavering under his glare.
His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening as if holding back words he’s desperate to say. The tension between us is a live wire crackling as he steps closer. The fabric of his sweater brushes against my arm, and I stiffen, fighting the pull that always seems to exist between us.
“You’re upset. I get it.”
“Upset doesn’t begin to cover it.” I can’t stop the way my pulse quickens under his scrutiny. “What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you?”
“Because you want answers.” His hand brushes mine, capturing it lightly and guiding me to his truck. “And because I have them.”
My throat tightens.
The door is still open, and the space inside is dark and waiting. I glance toward the faculty parking lot, my car only a few strides away, but the pull of him keeps me walking hand in hand.
His eyes stay locked on mine, and for a moment, I wonder if he knows he’s already won. When we reach the door, he lets go of my hand and steps back, giving me space but not retreating entirely.
“This better be worth it.”
I hook my hand on the handle to hoist myself aboard when he collects my backpack and purse from me. I don’t bother with a thank you. It’s the least he can do. I cast him a look over my shoulder to find him gazing down at the pavement.
“Always with the boots.”
Bewildered, I reply with an unintelligent, “Huh?”
Two steps, and he’s standing close enough that I tilt my chin up. His hand loosely covers my throat, keeping my face in place while his lips drift closer to mine.
“One day, you’ll be wearing those boots and nothing else, Iz.”
Iz.
The nickname from the other night.
It was a shock and blur when he first said it, too stimulated by what had happened to pay much mind. But here, in the glare of day and the campus backdrop, it’s intimate. A secret between us.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
