Page 12 of Trustfall

“Yeah, well, you missed the power outage meeting,” he spits, cutting me off mid-introduction.

His head is almost entirely inside Ashton's window now, his elbows leaning on the bottom of it. He’s so close that Ashton has to lean back to give him space.

“What?”

“They are going to cut the power tomorrow morning to work on a tree line issue over on Chestnut. There was a neighborhood meeting about it,” he says with zero sense of humor.

I can't help but laugh. I'm sure the “meeting” Luke's talking about is just Mrs. Peterson from down the street complaining to everyone about the power company again. She does this every time there's a scheduled maintenance outage. She must have caught Luke off guard, and he couldn't get away from her. The image in my head is hilarious. But it still doesn't explain why Luke is now almost halfway into Ashton's car, looking like he wants to kill him with his bare hands.

“I don't understand what’s so funny.” Luke blinks, his face exuding no-nonsense. I don’t think I have ever seen him look this serious. He can’t really be this upset over a planned power outage. This confrontation is starting to feel insane.

“I’ll tell you later. I’m just going to say goodbye to Ashton.” I wait for Luke to remove his body from the window, but he doesn’t make even the slightest move to do so. “Can you give us a minute?” I add.

Luke, slowly and reluctantly, backs his head out of the window and takes exactly two steps back from the car. He stands there like a bodyguard, scowling with his arms crossed tightly against his chest.

I offer Ashton an awkward apology, assuring him I’m not in any danger, and my next-door neighbor is just really passionate about electricity. Then I climb out of his car with a promise to keep in touch. He waves a hand as he backs up out of the driveway. I watch his car vanish around the corner, and as soon as his taillights fade, I turn to Luke. My earlier amusement at his impromptu meeting with the neighborhood busybody is suddenly replaced with irritation. Why was he such a dick to Ashton? It’s so out of character for him. We have only been reacquainted for a week, but I knew him for four years before this. In high school, he was always the outgoing guy who was friendly to everyone. My brother was the grumpy asshole. Still is, actually. But Luke was always so approachable. I wasn’t surprised to find out he was bartending in New York. He has the perfect personality for it. Or had. I don’t know about this broody, pacing, simmering man in front of me.

“What the hell was that?” I throw out.

“I didn’t know you were dating someone.”

“I’m not. Not that it’s any of your business, but Ashton is a friend.”

“Oh yeah? Do you wear ‘fuck me’ heels on all your dates with friends?”

I glance down at the shoes I borrowed from Allie earlier. She was thrilled that I was going on a ‘date,’ so she insisted on dressing me up, doing my makeup, and squeezing my feet into the black Louis Vuitton pumps Nate and I got her for her twenty-first birthday. Since she's a size smaller than me, my feet have been aching to break free for the last two hours, but they do look pretty hot.

I glance back up at Luke, and he's seething. What's going on here? Did Nate talk him into this? I swear, if my brother set this whole thing up to keep tabs on me through his best friend, I'll lose it. I don’t even need to gather courage to say my next words. I’m pissed.

“First of all, that’s sexist as fuck. And second of all, are you spying on me for Nate? If so, you can fuck all the way off with that. I’m not a little girl he has to take care of anymore,” I repeat Allie’s earlier sentiment.

“What? No. Why the hell would I be spying on you for Nate?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you tried to sabotage my date and were so far in our space that you almost fell onto Ashton's lap?”

He looks down and chuckles, but it’s not that carefree, easy laugh from earlier today. It’s darker, and there’s a hint of danger to it. He takes a step forward. “If I wanted to sabotage your date, I would have.”

“Why do you even care, Luke? We barely know each other.”

Something snaps and it’s almost audible. Luke stalks closer and before I know it, I'm walking backward until my back hits the side of my car. He places his hands on either side of my head, caging me. His eyes are wild, like two cobalt orbs, darting back and forth, and they darken with each passing second. His lips part slightly, and I close my eyes, preparing for the worst. I feel his hot breath on my face and hear the steady, fast thump of his heartbeat. His lips ghost over mine, enveloping me in the scent of spice and mint.

I should be freaking out. Why am I not freaking out? I almost had a panic attack when Ashton merely touched my back, but Luke is almost on top of me and all I feel is anticipation for what will come next. Not only is he in my personal space, but he’s still not acting like himself. This isn’t the sweet, gentle Luke I remember. He’s angry; that much is clear, but I can’t figure out what his angle is. He says he’s not spying on me for Nate. He wasn’t trying to ruin my date. So why does it feel like he’s about to kiss me?

Seconds tick by, and I start to wonder if I'm losing my mind. Did I just imagine the whole thing? But just when I can't take the suspense anymore, I hear a shoe scrape on the concrete and look down to see Luke's retreating boots. I glance to my left and right, and his hands are no longer on the car.

“Luke,” I call out. He turns around, but I'm at a loss for words. What can I say? Luke Collins almost kissed me. Was he angry? Jealous? And now he's just walking away. The emotional rollercoaster of the last twenty minutes has me reeling, and I couldn't explain how I feel even if my life depended on it.

So, I do what comes naturally.

I deflect.

“Mrs. Peterson used to date a power company technician,” I say, noticing how breathy my voice still is. “It ended badly, so now she likes to cause trouble with them. Your best bet is to pretend you aren't home when she comes by.”

Luke nods at me. “Yeah, thanks for the tip.”

And then he’s gone.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

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