Page 20 of Stay
“Where are we going?”
“My car is parked right over here. I thought we could grab something from Leno’s.”
This has me stopping in my tracks. “We’re not going to the Union?”
“Leno’s is only a few blocks away, and the sandwiches are fantastic. Not to mention fast. Much better than anything we’ll find at the Union.”
As if the subject has already been settled, he walks through the parking lot.
Twilight has just started to fall, making the shadows stretch and lengthen on the ground.
“Come on, Cassidy. I promise, forty minutes tops and then I’ll drop you off at the library. If we go to the Union, you’d have to walk all the way across campus. Either way, it’ll end up taking the same amount of time. And the food is way better at Leno’s.”
Unconsciously, I trail after him.
What he says makes sense…sort of.
As soon as I’m at his side, he reaches out, nabbing my fingers with his own. I glance down at our clasped hands before glancing at him in confusion. Of course, there’s a smile tipping the corners of his lips upward. Something unwanted pings at the bottom of my belly.
I wish I could get used to the feelings he dredges up inside me. They would be so much easier to ignore if that were the case.
“This isn’t a date,” I repeat in a voice that sounds high-pitched and twitchy.
“Whatever you say.”
His response only makes me twitchier.
Regret swamps me as he tows me through the parking lot until we arrive at a sports car.
My gaze licks over it before one brow rises. “You own a Shelby Mustang?”
Surprise flares in his eyes as a slow smile spreads across his face. “Pure Detroit muscle, baby.”
He strokes a hand gently over the exterior. Clearly there is a real love affair going on between them. I almost smirk. Maybe I don’t have anything to be worried about after all.
A smile touches my lips as my attention gets pulled back to the vehicle. She really is a beauty. Electric blue, with two thick white racing stripes down the middle.
“2008?” I ask, completely taken in by the gleaming Mustang.
Inspecting the rims, I wait for an answer. Honestly, I’d be surprised if I was wrong. When he remains silent, I glance over at him. I’ve seen enough muscle cars to identify the make and model. My dad and I used to attend classic car shows.
Corvettes and Mustangs. Those were his favorites.
Don’t get me wrong, I like Mustangs too. But I really love Camaros. It’s been over a year since I’ve been to a car show.
The smile slips from my lips.
When my gaze locks on his, he says, “I think I might love you, Cassidy.”
I snort. Guys are so like that. Anytime a chick knows even the slightest detail about a muscle car, or cars in general for that matter, their minds literally explode. It’s ridiculous, not to mention sexist, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I get off on it a teeny-tiny bit.
Ignoring the declaration, I run my hand over her sleek polished lines. And yeah, even I refer to them ashers. Weird, I know, but there’s just something beautiful and sexy about muscle cars. So, I completely understand why guys refer to them as females.
“Five hundred and forty horses with a V-8 engine. She’s gorgeous.” I glare. “You’re an idiot for keeping her at school.”
He blinks. Twice. “Say it again,” he murmurs. His voice is all thick and gravelly.
“Gladly.” Then I repeat with more emphasis, “You’re an idiot.”
