Page 16 of My Rose

“Fine.” My phone vibrated on the floor in the small clutch I’d taken to the party. I shuffled and picked it up. Relief should have surged through me at seeing August’s name pop up, but it didn’t. It only made me more angry. He wanted to know where I went, finally noticing my absence after over an hour. And for once, I didn’t feel like telling him where I was.

“Does August need you to come back?” Briggs’ tone was mocking, but he looked full of the same rage that was boiling in me.

“As you said, we aren’t friends. So I don’t have to justify that with a response.”

“That’s a yes.” Smug. So damn smug.

I checked my phone again as it vibrated, and sure enough, it was August again, asking me to come back and bring more beer because the keg was almost out. I sighed and rubbed my fingertips along my cheekbones until my head fell into my palms. I muttered under my breath about them both going to hell and a low chuckle came from Briggs that had my head springing back up from my hands. “You’re such an ass.”

“If that’s the worst you think of me, I’m doing pretty good.”

Before I could ask what that meant, we were pulling up to my driveway, porch light on, guiding my way in. The car door didn’t open like before, and when I looked over at Briggs, his finger was tapping lightly on top of a button.

“Don’t go back over there.” His tone was infuriating, his demands seeping under my skin like irritation at the same time it seemed to turn my stomach into a fluttering mess—just as conflicting as Briggs himself was.

I snapped. “You don’t want to act like a friend, but you’ll take up the position of being my parent? I don’t think so.”

He moved quickly, leaning over the middle console and tucking his index finger under my chin. My eyes widened and my breath stilled, those butterflies exploding with furious wingbeats. “Don’t. Go. Back. Understood?”

I was still tipsy, too tipsy to have a gorgeous asshole touching my face and leaning in as close as he was.

Just an inch, maybe two, and—

“Understood?” I bit down on my lip and his gaze flicked down. As angry as he was making me, there was something between us that I wanted to act on. No, I wantedhimto act on—like I was sure he was close to doing before we were interrupted. I replied with a noise, something between a moan and an agreement that I wouldn’t go back. He dropped his finger and I reached up to gently touch the warmth that escaped along my jaw as he pushed back into his seat.

“Goodnight, Rose,” he said while staring through the windshield at my garage door. The car door opened without another word, gull wings flying into the air, similar to my lapse in judgment.

He was such an ass.

“Goodbye, Briggs.” I tucked my clutch under my arm and got out, and right before he could press that damn button again, I reached up and slammed his car door down. I didn’t care how expensive his car was. He deserved it. And when I saw the curve of his mouth tilt up to one side as the light inside his car faded off, I wished I had another door I could slam in his face. I stormed up the porch steps and refrained from slamming the front door shut, because it wasn’t my grandparents’ fault, and they were more than likely asleep. The second I flipped off the switch, Briggs’ engine roared, then faded away.

A part of me wanted to run back out the door and ask him what the fuck I did wrong. What my part was in his sudden change. Another part of me was sickly intrigued. Which is exactly why I spent about an hour thinking about the tattoos that spread along his body, the way his dimple popped when his true smile came out to play, and the stupid smell of his jacket that I fell asleep wearing.

“Pass the salt please, sweetie,” my grandmother said in a sweet, low voice. I slid the salt across the table to her as she yawned. My grandfather was standing at the stove, cooking the hash browns that he could never quite brown—one side always ended up mushy and light, but I didn’t mind.

“Any plans this week?” My grandmother pushed her wire-framed glasses up her nose as she salted her scrambled eggs. My grandfather never seasoned anything he cooked, so while his back was turned, she loaded up on every seasoning she could reach that was left out. The gesture was cute—her, trying to make sure grandfather didn’t feel like he somehow failed, even though the green flakes in her food made it rather obvious what she’d done. It was always overlooked and didn’t stop him from trying to cook whenever he felt up to it.

“Besides studying for finals and working?” I shifted in my seat. “No. I was thinking of visiting sometime this week, though.” She knew who I was visiting. I never needed to say ‘my dead parents’ or ‘your dead daughter’ to them. I’d spent so long relearning how to talk, yet some thoughts I still struggled to get from my mind and out of my mouth.

My grandmother chewed her food and nodded as she looked me over. I twirled the fork in my hand, avoiding meeting her eyes. “Who was that who dropped you off the other night?”

“What?”

“You know, that fancy black car with the flappy doors.” She flapped her arms up as my grandfather turned around.

He let out a sigh as he glanced at her plate, then said, “Those are called gull wings, dear.” Then he pointed to me with the spatula in his hand. “That’s a pricey car.”

I rolled my eyes because I knew that. I’d sat inside it, and the leather was the smoothest thing I’d ever felt. I pushed my face into my palms. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“Oh dear, we weren’t. But we heard your voice and then saw you try to slam the—” My grandfather cleared his throat and turned back to flip the hash browns. “Right, well. The point is, we live in a small town. And your grandfather says that car can only be from one family in this area. It’s worth almost a million dollars.”

I choked on my eggs and started slapping my hand to my chest. “Umm…what?”

My grandfather nodded. “Haven’t you learned anything about cars hanging out with your old man?” The old man being him, because he was essentially my father figure.

“Yes, but I don’t know every car. I know enough to change a tire and fix a radiator hose, but you mostly work on older cars. Nothing like what Briggs—”

“Briggs, huh? That’s the young man’s name?” My grandmother’s cheeks pinked over as she smiled knowingly, blending in with her blush that spread up to her temples. “He seems like a nice guy.”

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