Page 79 of Ice Darling
“You’re…” For just a moment, he tilts his head to the ceiling and seems to short-circuit. “You’re…”
“Amazing? Irresistible?Exquisite?”
“Late.We’relate.” He checks his watch which is an obvious ploy to break eye contact. “We should hit the road.”
I laugh and lock my door, noticing that he’s keeping a more than respectful distance while I do so.
Renthrow remains silent as he walks me to the car and opens the door for me. I watch him jog around the hood, his shoulders broad and his profile ruggedly handsome.
And I feel myself coming to some dangerous conclusions.
This man really, really doesn’t want to like me.
Which makes him even more tempting.
My whole life, everything I’ve ever wanted has been laid out before me. The best schools, the best summer vacations, the best houses and cars and bikes. It was delivered on a silver platter.
But easy is boring.
I like a challenge, and when I see something I want, I go after it—no matter the odds.
When it comes to Renthrow, well, the odds are not in my favor.
I really wish that was enough to stop me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Renthrow
The silence that whirls around us as I speed down the freeway feels expectant. Or maybe that’s just me overthinking. Cordelia seems content enough though I notice her tapping her fingers on her leg.
There’s a lot of her legs showing in that dress.
Way too much to concentrate.
I need a distraction.
Tomorrow is meal-prep day, so I force myself to think about what I’m going to do for that. Gordie said she liked my fried egg rolls, but that her friends ate most of them, so I should probably fill an extra container for her to give away…
“Do you mind if I listen to some music?” Cordelia asks.
I look over at her in the darkness of the truck. Her eyes are brown and clear, but there’s something shimmery over her eyelids.
Her lips are shimmery too. Whether it’s lipstick or lipgloss on her lips, I don’t know. But I do know I want to lick them like whipped cream off an apple pie.
No.
I think I might be out of oyster sauce. Maybe I can find a substitute? Fish sauce should work.
“We can talk instead,” Cordelia adds.
Talking? Like the talking she did in her doorway?
Heat simmers through my veins.
No, talking with this woman is too dangerous.
“Have at it.” I gesture to the radio.
