Dad would have liked him.
Sorren.
My dad respected people who meant what they said. People who didn’t pretend to be something they weren’t.
And when I really think about it…
Sorren hasn’t lied to me.
Not even when I laughed at him. Didn’t believe him.
By the time I’m done getting Sorren dressed and the suitcase packed, the sides strain like I’ve packed for a trip around the world rather than an overnight stay in Annapolis. I tug at the zipper, but it doesn’t budge.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the bag.
I almost tell him no, but he’s already taken the weight from my hands. The fabric strains between his fingers as he zips it.
“You’re going to rip that,” I say.
“I am not,” he replies evenly.
It does not tear.
“Oh. Uh, thanks.”
He lifts the bag like it weighs nothing and waits for me to grab my keys before heading for the door.
Then we’re at my car.
Sorren sits in the front passenger seat this time. I watch from the corner of my eye as he folds himself into the car. His knees jam against the dashboard until he adjusts, angling his legs carefully.
The space suddenly feels much smaller than it did a minute ago.
Warmer.
His gaze moves slowly to my neck, my wrist, my chest. Like he’s tracking something.
“Your heart is beating faster,” he says with a thoughtful expression.
I nearly plow into the mailbox at the end of my driveway.
“It’s, uh, warm in here.” To prove my point, I turn on the air conditioner, directing the vents toward my face like that will do anything to stop the burn spreading up my chest and neck.
“Uh-huh,” he says mildly, like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“You can hear it? My heart?”
Please say no.
Please say no.
“Yes,” he answers like it’s no big deal.
Damnit.
“My senses are much stronger than yours,” he says. “More refined.”
“Great.” I roll my eyes. “Because that’s not creepy at all.”
