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“As opposed to what?” I shouldn’t ask, but can’t resist.
When he drops the flask in my lap, the remaining vodka splashes on my shirt and the car. He ignores my sharp inhale of surprise, leaning close to murmur in my ear.
“Being the latest in a long line of people my brother wants to fuck.”
13
Shay
I was wrong.
Whatever moment of connection I thought we had the day he drove me to school, I can still find it in myself to hate Jameson Ashford.
He thinks I have to beg some guy to let me in his car? I’ll show him how wrong he is.
The next afternoon, Jameson was spotted with a Porsche that clunked and rattled its way across campus, courtesy of yours truly. He babied it for twenty-four hours until he figured out someone zip-tied his driveshaft.
The day after, it took me way too long to find the two plug wires that were swapped under the hood of the Fastback. My firing order was fucked up, so the ’67 started but idled like garbage, sounded worse, and had zero power.
Thursday, Jameson’s Porsche didn’t make it to school. The drivers had off-campus commitments and media training in town. Finding it there would be hard for someone not sufficiently motivated.
I’m very motivated.
I’d been dreaming all night about replacing the engine sound profile so the next time he revved the engine in front of school, it’d hum like a golf cart. At least until I got to my own car and saw what he did.
My cockiness evaporated into horror when I slid into the driver’s seat and reached for my shifter.
Letters were etched into it with cold precision.
A-S-H-F-O-R-D.
“God, he’s gorgeous.” Bree’s pencil moves over her notepad as she leans on the counter.
“Hmm?” I glance over to see what she’s drawing—a guy with massive biceps and a big grin holding a wrench in one hand and lifting a girl with tattoos in the other.
She’s not looking at the page, though, she’s staring at the guy fixing the door. It’s not a hardship; he’s tall and muscular, his head buzzed and his eyes intent on his task.
“I could have fixed that,” her brother says, wiping his hand on a towel as he emerges from the kitchen.
“And I would have broken it again if you had,” Bree declares, flipping her blond ponytail over a shoulder.
We watch the guy work until he comes over and smiles at Bree. “All done for today.”
“Thanks, Trevor.”
His gaze drops to the notepad. Bree flips it closed, but from his confused smile, she was a beat late. “Anything else I can help with while I’m here?”
She stares at him as if she’s genuinely trying to think of something.
“…Or I can come back.”
“Yes!” she gushes. “Yes, please come. Back. Come back.”
“He is cute,” I inform her once he leaves. “You going to do anything about it or stick to drawing thirsty cartoons?”
She shoves my shoulder and turns to the stack of pies she’s supposed to be boxing for an order. “I’m waiting for him to ask me for my number.”
“He has it. He works for you,” her brother says, passing through with a bin of dishes.
