And then she was gone, and I was alone again. Alone with my thoughts. With the ghosts of soccer fields and sweat-stained headbands and laughter that didn’t come with a filter.
A buzz pulled me out of it.
Text message.
Driver’s on his way. Be readyin 10.
I blinked.
Who is this?I typed back.
Seconds later, an eye-roll emoji appeared. Then an image: a custom coat of arms. Gold. Crowned. Royal Oaks crest stylized with swagger.
I stared at the screen.
No. Way.
Leo?
Bingo, baby.
Group project. Let’s go.
I gaped at the screen.
I don’t get into cars with strangers. Tell your driver to leave.
No response.
Thirty minutes later, therumbleof a car engine broke through the quiet. I shot up, tossing the cat from my lap and sprinted barefoot to the screen door.
No. Freaking. Way.
A chromed-out Mercedes coupe idled at the bottom of the gravel slope.
I barely had time to curse before I heard the door slam.
Leo Holt.
In my driveway.
Leather jacket. Jeans that probably cost more than my aunt’s monthly car payment. And that godforsaken cocky smirk that made me want to screamandkiss him all at once.
“You’re not invited here,” I called, stepping onto the porch, arms crossed over my oversized T-shirt.
He just raised a brow. “Didn’t ask for an invitation,Gitanilla.”
I frowned. “What did you just call me?”
“Gitanilla,” he said again, casually. “Means little gypsy. Suits you. Always vanishing, always showing up where you don’t belong.”
I bristled.
“I don’t care what you think it means,” I snapped. “You can’t just text and summon me like I’m your little prep school handmaid.”
His smirk deepened. “I don’t want a handmaid. I want a partner. For the project.”
“Not happening.”
