He’s finally looking at me, not flirting, just talking. But his dark brown eyes are unbelievably charming.
“Good luck, man,” Gris calls to Cameron from across the room. “That one’s got a violent temper.” He laughs, brave now that Travis isn’t here. I glare after him as he walks out the door. When he’s gone, I turn back to Cameron.
“I’m good,” I tell him. “But thanks anyway.” I keep my head down because Gris made me feel stupid. Sure, I do have a violent temper—so says the court—but fuck Gris. He doesn’t know me. He’s about to get another black eye.
My hands shake and I press my books to my chest, not even waiting to put them in my backpack, as I start out the door.
What sucks is that I do need a ride. But I’m not just going to fall all over Cameron because he finally made eye contact. I have some self-respect.
I walk down the hall and push open the doors to the parking lot. The second I do, a wet breeze rushes in, smelling like earth and worms. It’s absolutely pouring down rain outside. You have got to be kidding.
I set my backpack on the ground and shove my books inside. I don’t have bus fare. I don’t have anyone to call for a ride. So I zip up my pack and hold it over my head in a pathetic attempt to stay dry, and walk into the parking lot.
Immediately, fat splatters of rain soak my shirt and bleed into my sneakers. And it’s cold. I get about halfway across the parking lot when a black BMW pulls next to me, keeping up. The passenger window rolls down.
“You sure you’re sure?” Cameron calls. I glance over, and when I meet his eyes, both of us start laughing. I can only imagine how ridiculous I look right now. Still, I hesitate—even though I know it will take me half the afternoon to get home. There really is no other choice.
“Fine,” I say, lowering my backpack and grabbing the shiny handle of his passenger door. I climb inside and stash my bag at my feet, rain dripping from my hair and clothes.
I look sideways at Cameron. “I’m ruining your interior,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s just water.” He lifts the corner of his mouth in a smile and flicks on the heater, sending a rush of warm air over my face.
He is so freaking smooth. And it’s not normal. Normal guys don’t just swoop in and offer me rides. Not without expecting something in return. I narrow my eyes at him, wanting to figure him out. Wanting to know his deal.
“Why do you talk to me all the time?”
“Do you not want me to?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
“You can or whatever. I’m just wondering why you talk tomeand not someone else.” His dark eyes are soul searching, kind. I pause in my bitchiness.
“Who else do you think I should talk to?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I respond. “Talk to whoever you want. I just didn’t know why it was me.”
He turns away to look out the windshield. “Well, you do sit next to me. . . .”
Oh, great. He’s going to be logical about it. “That’s it?”
“Well, to be honest, you’re not the type of girl I expected to find at the esteemed Brooks Academy.”
“And what type is that?” I ask, unclear if he’s complimenting or insulting me.
“Not really sure,” he says. “Just not you.”
He doesn’t go on, and I feel slighted. “Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with me?”
He glances over, seeming surprised by my reaction. “No. Nothing. It’s just . . . you’ve got this whole angry-girl-next-door thing going on. It’s interesting.”
What does that mean? How does he know I’m angry?
“Plus I dig red hair,” he adds casually.
I stare at him.
“What?” he asks.
Of course. “Did you really think I was this easy?” I ask. “Are you some unbalanced asshole who tries to hit on vulnerable girls? I hate to tell you, Cameron. I’m not easily picked up. And I’m certainly not vulnerable.”
