I hop in, and he closes the door, swinging in himself on the driver side. When he cranks the engine, it fires to life and doesn’t backfire like Candy’s car did.
“Where to?” He types something out on his phone and then puts it in the center console. More EDM, I think Kane Brown and Marshmello’s “One Thing Right,” comes through the speakers, but it’s barely there unlike at the apartment. So far, that’s his biggest flaw.
“I live off of Ben—Tenth. I live off of Tenth Street.” I hope I caught myself early enough, but judging by his snort, I didn’t.
Why is Carter being so nice anyway? Does he just want to get in my pants? If so, he’ll be sorely disappointed. At this rate, there’s probably enough cobwebs to serve as a chastity belt. “Lo siento, señor,” I mumble, embarrassed that Ben is somehow overshadowing the whole ride.
He shrugs and laughs. “Nothin’ to apologize for—except your accent.” He chuckles again, and I roll my eyes. “So, you met Candy in class today, right?”
Cold air blows from the vents and makes me shiver, despite the heat outside. “Yeah, how’d you know?”
“She told me.”
I scan through our encounter. “When did she tell you?”
He taps on his forehead. “Twin telepathy.” His nose crinkles when he grins, and it makes me want to reach out and ‘boop’ it. It’s so freaking cute.
“I think I’m in love with your sister, actually. She sorta saved me in class today. But then, she almost killed me right after.”
He taps his hand to the beat on the steering wheel. “Everything she does is a thinly-veiled version of dangerous.”
Maybe first impressions aren’t always right. The way the music was blaring and their whole twin argument without speaking and the downright gorgeous smirks, I was sure he was just some womanizer. Maybe Candy is the womanizer. Or man-izer?
“What’re you thinking about?” He reaches over and turns the A/C down, but his fingers brush mine.
I don’t breathe. Because if I do, it’s going to come out ragged, and come on. I can’t let him know he affects me like that. “Nothing, why?”
He gives me a side-eyed glance as he stops at the red light. Not too far from my apartment now. The light turns green and the truck rumbles as he punches the gas. “You just had this glazed over look like it was something important.”
Man, why’s everyone all up in my business? Can’t a girl talk to her studio audience without being questioned? “Nah, I was just thinking about Candy and how I didn’t get her number.”
“Oh.” He pops open the center console and fishes around. Out comes his phone, and he hands it to me. “You can grab it from my contacts. While you’re in there, put your own number in.” Now it’s his turn to wink.
And oh, do those winks get to me. Most guys are worried that they’ll get a text or that chicks will go and snoop through their messages. The way he casually handed his phone over sort of makes my heart flutter. Ridiculous. I can hear everyone say, Millennials, they’re killing the romance industry.
“Please, don’t ever wink again.”
He juts out his bottom lip. “How come you get to wink and I don’t?”
He’s being ridiculous, and I turn up my nose at him. “Because I don’t make women abandon all their morals when I wink.” I punch in my phone number.
A long sigh is his response. Then, “Well, your winks aren’t half bad, either.”
I sputter into laughter. “That’s what I aspire to be. ‘Not half bad.’”
He flicks my nose gently. “Relax, Les. I was just kidding.” But then he winks again.
Is he flirting with me? I want to say yes, but maybe he just thinks I’m funny and is playing along. He pulls onto Tenth Street, and I point to a brick building with new, industrial-style condos. I know. So fancy, huh? Blame my mom for that. “Right here.”
The truck shakes as it’s put into park. I hand him back his phone, and he bites his lip at the screen with my name, number, and a quick selfie I just took as the contact picture (where I’m winking, of course). As I’m about to close the door, he leans over the center console and keeps it open. “Don’t be a stranger, aight?”
I shrug and feign nonchalance. “No promises.” I blow a kiss and wave, not daring to look back.
Chapter Three
I figured I’d live in the dorms, but my mom insisted on me having my own apartment. She didn’t want any other “residents” distracting me from my studies. My parents always said everything is paid for—so long as I go to school. Once I get my degree, Mom sends me on my merry way into the real world.
But, even that can be argued considering the trust fund unlocks when I turn twenty-two, which is right after I should finish my degree. Of course, should I stop at just a bachelor’s degree, my mom might disown me. She plans on me being her protégé. Unfortunately for her, I’m really not a fan of brains.
Unfortunately for me, she’s not a zombie. Because that would be way cooler. She’s a neurosurgeon, one of the toughest people I know, and her name is currently flashing across my phone screen. And I have no choice but to answer it because…well, ’cause she’s all I have left. “Hey Mom, what’s up?” I kick off my shoes and catapult onto my bed.
“What was that noise?”
Alright, cool, so obviously not that important of a call or she would’ve opened up with her news. Which means, what the hell is she calling about? Apparently, my silence is all she needs to continue. “I have ten minutes. Your first day? Good?”
She never speaks longer than she needs to. It’s as if she thinks her words hold so much weight, everyone should already know what she’s trying to say. “Yep, it was great.”
“You saw Ben?”
What the... “How did you know I saw him?”
“Ben has a good head on his shoulders.” Oh, now she’ll talk. Ben’s the favorite no matter what, and he’s not even her kid. “He’s going to make a great surgeon and he’s on scholarship for the baseball team. It’ll look great for his med school applications. You could apply to the same school. Think of your future, Les.”
Something’s pounding at my forehead. Okay, it’s my fist hitting my brow over and over again because is she for real? I barely hold in an eye roll. “That’s the thing, Mom. I shouldn’t have to think of my future. I’m a freshman in college. Let me find myself before you make up my life for me.”
A sputtered breath comes through the phone on the other end. “Finding yourself is just a millennial term for ‘goofing off.’ You never should’ve broken up with Ben.”
“I didn’t break up with him. He broke up with me.”
“That’s not what he said.”
I want to tear out my hair. “Well, whose side are you on?”
“The side of rationality.”
I can’t do this. “I’m going to hang up before I say something I regret. Goodbye, Mom. Love you.” I press end before she has a chance to say something else. And since rude thoughts about her could hang around my head for the next five hours, I pull out my syllabi and look them over. I’m taking fifteen credits, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Regardless of what my mom likes to think, I’m smart.