Suddenly self-conscious, I shift my legs out of his reach. “Really. It’s okay. Just scratches.”
His mouth twists as he lifts the pinked tissue and inspects my torn skin. My injuries are only skin deep, but they’ll probably still leave marks. Not that I’m worried about scars. Unlike Rae, whose plastic surgeon father made her so fearful of imperfect skin that she learned to apply sunscreen before she was even potty-trained.
“I didn’t peg you for a Disney princess enthusiast,” I say, as the boy breaks out a pack of girlie Band-Aids from his shopping bag.
“They’re my sister’s.”
I frown at his lack of humor, then peer past him into the car, but it’s empty. He peels the backs off two bandages, then tapes them to my skinned knees.
Afterward, he tosses his arsenal back into the shopping bag and checks his bulky metal watch, which is so crammed with dials and arrows it’s a miracle he can read the time.
I wonder if he’s on his way to meet a date. A boy this good-looking must have a girlfriend.
He grabs my phone and earbuds, which still leak Mona Stone’s heady voice, and his lips contort. “Here.” He all but shoves them at me.
Frowning at his sudden animosity—not that he was Mr. Sunshine before—I unglue my gaze from his face and transfer it to my phone. I grumble when I realize my screen is shattered. “Does your insurance cover phone repairs?”
His eyebrows pop up. “How do I know it wasn’t broken before?”
Jerk.I don’t say it out loud, but I must think it real loud, because he rises from his crouch and stalks back to his car. I presume he’s going to drive away, but instead he keeps the door open and leans over the armrest.
A couple of seconds later, he trudges back, a store receipt flapping in his hand. “Here.”
I blink as I take it from him. “You want me to pay you back for the Band-Aids and the water?”
A nerve twitches in his jaw. “My phone number’s on the back. Check your bike, and tell me how much I owe you.”
Although it looks painful for him, he offers me his hand. I don’t take it. Wouldn’t want to subject him to any more agony.
The heels of my palms smart as I push myself up, but at least they’re not bleeding. I grab my helmet and bag and right my bike. Besides a crooked spoke and scuffs on the glossy black frame, it seems fine. I turn the motor off, because my legs are shaking too much to cycle.
Hand resting on the frame of his open car door, he watches me for a moment. I watch him back, but then that turns awkward, so I lower my eyes to his T-shirt, which readsBEAST MODE ACTIVATED.
“You need a ride somewhere?” he asks.
I jerk my gaze back up to his face.
His eyes, which look golden in the rapidly setting sun, are guarded and reticent.
I shake my head. “I’m not going far.”
He climbs into his car fast, as though worried I might change mymind. I start walking my bike down the sidewalk, straining to hear his car tires screech. Either he has the quietest car, or he hasn’t driven away.
I cast a glance over my shoulder. Even though the hazard lights are off, his car isn’t moving. He’s probably just as shaken up as I am by the collision. He honks, and it makes me jump. I spin my head around just in time to avoid knocking into a streetlamp.
Is that why he honked? To warn me?
Ugh.He must think I’m a total klutz, which isn’t going to help my case about my cracked cell phone screen. The store receipt with his phone number feels as though it’s burning a hole in the back pocket of my cutoffs. MaybeIhave insurance for the screen. I hope so, because I don’t want to contact him. He’d probably ask me to prove my phone wasn’t damaged before, and I really don’t feel like having to prove myself to anyone.
Except to Mona Stone.
I quicken my strides, buoyed by the desire to look up everything about the contest on Rae’s computer.
3
Rules Are Meant to Be Broken
For the past hour, I’ve been poring over Mona Stone’s website, reading every line of fine print about the music competition.
