“What?”
“Are you going to tell me you’ve had a crush on me for years, too?”
He laughs. “Who told you that?” But before I can answer he shakes his head. “Holloway and Drake.”
“Yep. So if you have some kind of big confession, save it.”
“Noted.” He leaves his spot and collects a few empty bottles, carrying them over to the sink. A bottle of vodka has a tiny bit in the bottom. He places the top to his lips and swallows it, then grabs the faucet and rinses it out.
We work in silence, his long shirtsleeves pushed over his elbows. His forearms are long and lean, a muscular cut down the side. It’s disturbingly attractive and for a minute, I wish I hadn’t told him not to profess his feelings for me—whether he had them or not.
I grab the rinsed-out bottles. “Recycling?”
He rests two against his biceps and another four between his long fingers and nods toward the back door. “This way.”
I use my hip and my elbow to turn the door knob, which elicits a smile on his broody face. The recycling bins aren’t far from the door. I place the bottles I’m holding in, then turn to take the ones out of his arms before he drops them, and they shatter on the hard garage floor.
Our fingers brush as I take them away from him. Mine cold from the water—his warm, just because. I feel my own body heat rise from being near him. I remember my thoughts about him from the first day of school. I’m not into juvenile delinquents.
I tilt my head and look at him. Or am I?
That’s the thing about the last week. I’m definitely not sure about who any of us are anymore, myself included.
“What?” he says, frowning. “What’s that face for?”
“Just thinking about how the last week has changed my perspective on things—well, really, people.”
“Am I not living up to your preconceived notions, Keene?”
“Oh, you are,” I say, “revealing that you’d been secretly selling drugs to Rose for the last year kind of confirmed what I was thinking about you. I guess I was talking about myself.”
“You’re not living up to your preconceived notions about yourself.”
I exhale. “No, I guess not.”
He arches his eyebrow. “Is that a bad thing?”
My heart flips-flops at the way he’s looking at me. Intense. Determined. Interested. I glance over his shoulder and avoid his question, asking one of my own. “Is that your motorcycle?”
His expression lifts, the dark energy shifting into something lighter.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he says, his smile genuine. He walks over and runs his hand down the black leather seat, then rubs his thumb on an imaginary spot. “Want to go on a ride?”
I roll my eyes. “I can see the headline now, ‘Days after Thistle Cove darling goes missing, two lesser students crash head first into a tree after a night of drinking and debauchery at Baxter Manor.’”
He laughs. “Did you just make that up? That was very good.”
I walk across the room and stop a few feet from the leather and chrome. “I had an epiphany. Of our deaths. So as much as I would like to go for ride with you, I’m thinking tonight is probably not the best idea.”
He slings his long leg over the seat and rests his hands on the handlebars
. His muscles tense from the motion, his shirt stretching over his shoulders. I see the firm planes of his back and damn, his butt looks really good perched on the center of the seat.
He lifts his chin. “You know that’s why she ditched you, right?”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re logical and smart. Sensible. Rose wanted to run like fire was chasing her—and you wouldn’t have let her do it.”