Page 8 of Austin

I’m warm, and I’m in a short-sleeved shirt. He must be stifling.

“Just take it off. Clearly, you don’t need it anymore. I’ve already seen your famous face.” I don’t use air quotes, but I say it as if I did.

He lets out a long groan and then concedes. With one hand on the steering wheel, he holds the other arm out toward me. It takes a second too long for me to see that he wants me to help him get undressed.

Mentally noting the oddness of the situation, I tug on his sleeve, and he pulls his arm in toward himself. He switches hands, and we repeat the process before he lifts the sweatshirt over his head and tosses it into the backseat.

A sigh of comfort escapes his lips while I choke back a gasp at some seriously strong arms.

Great. I’m turned on by the jerk. Just what I need in my life.

“Like what you see?” he says.

I have to clench my jaw to fight my body’s reaction.

I give my head a little shake as my eyes fall to the Foo Fighters T-shirt he’s wearing.

“I’m a huge Dave Grohl fan,” I say, trying to find some type of normalcy for the reminder of the drive.

He leans forward and taps his iPhone. His speakers roar to life with the opening chords of “Everlong” by the Foo Fighters. This is one of my favorite songs but only when it’s played acoustically, which is what he just happened to put on.

Figures.

“You have good taste in music,” I say nonchalantly as I sit back in my seat.

His lips tilt up in a slight grin. “Only this version though. Did you hear it when they played it on Howard Stern?”

I hate that he knows that. I don’t want him to be someone I have common interests with. He’s the prick who pushed me into his car. I need to remember that, but I’ve never met someone who knew the history of the acoustic version.

In any other situation, I would be totally turned on and excited to open the conversation about other music trivia, but I bite my lip and only respond with, “Yeah.”

As it turns out, we have a lot of the same music tastes. Our iTunes accounts could be synonymous, and we listen in ease as we sail toward the city. The bright lights of San Francisco against the blackness of the bay draw closer with every song.

We pull up to a stoplight, my house just blocks away. I look out the passenger window as I drum my fingers along my thigh, feeling the measured beats echo through me. The darkness of the night outside my window mixed with the interior lights of the car makes it easy to see my refection.

And not just mine.

I can see him chancing casual glances my way. His gaze focuses on my fingers tapping my skin and then moves straight up to the side of my face.

He’s looking at me.

Taking me in.

It’s unnerving to know someone is watching you when you don’t want to turn to acknowledge it.

“Do I at least get your name?” I ask as a way to break the spell.

In the glass, I watch as his mouth opens and then closes.

“Do I get yours?”

I turn to him in surprise, realizing I never gave him my name either.

He drops his gaze and refocuses back on the road. “I guess we’ll just leave it at that. Names don’t matter because I never plan on seeing you again,” he says.

I fight the unwelcome sting his words leave in my eyes and point to the corner nearest my building. “Here is fine.”

“I’m not leaving you on some street corner.”