Page 15 of Wallflower
“It’s abusiness,” she retorts. “AndIrun it. Not you. There are no cabins.”
“There were twelve cabins last time I checked.”
“And none of them are available.”
Chord’s hands, tucked under his hard biceps, flex in and out of fists, but his tone stays even. “Not one cabin is free for the entire summer?”
“No. Not one.”
Charlie lifts her chin, daring Chord to argue, and a silent moment passes when I think he might. This is so awkward. I’m the reason they’re arguing, which is bad enough, but it also feels like witnessing a family moment that should be private.
I take a small step back, but gravel crunches under my sneakers and I freeze. They whip around to pin me with identical frowns, and Chord’s eyes are cold enough to make my heart sputter.
Charlie shakes her head with a nasal grunt of disapproval. “If you’re so rich and so important that you need a twenty-four-seven personal assistant, Chord Fergus Davenport, you can find a room for her in that big fancy house of yours.”
A laugh that sounds suspiciously like a whimper bubbles up my throat. She wants me to live with Chord forthree months? His middle name isFergus?
Chord glares at his sister as blood tips his ears red, but he remains silent. It’s a standoff until, to my surprise, Charlie breaks it by turning to me.
“It’s nothing personal, Violet. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Sure.” My nervous humor fizzles into dread as my eyes bounce between Chord and Charlie. Is he really not going to say anything? My heart has never raced this fast. “Uh, thank you.”
She gives me a tight smile before she turns on her heel and disappears behind those huge, heavy white doors. I watch them in case she returns to tell me this was all a big joke, but there’s only silence.
“Key.”
I whip my head around to Chord, who is standing closer than I realized, all irritation replaced with blank coolness, watching me with his hand out, palm up expectantly.
“I’m sorry?”
He twitches his fingers and raises his brows, distracting me with that sexy scar. “Give me your car key.”
“Oh. Sure. Okay.”
I don’t stop to wonder why he wants my key. I’m too busy processing what’s happening while dealing with the fact that Chord is talking directly to me. His smooth, rich baritone slides down my spine as I fumble in my satchel, pull out the car fob, and offer it to him. When he takes it, his fingers brush across mine and sparks fly all the way to my elbow. My eyes widen at the feel of it, and Chord gives me a curious frown before turning away.
My stomach does a tight little flip. My nerves are out of control.
Chord takes a few long strides toward my car, and when I don’t follow, he stops and turns with an exasperated look. “Are you coming?”
“Yes. Of course.”
I hurry over as he reaches the car and slips behind the wheel. I get in on the passenger side just as he’s adjusting the driver’s seat to accommodate his long, athletic legs, but it hardly helps at all. He slides the seat forward, then back. Forward again. Back again. The car is small and he’s simply too big for it, and his chiseled jaw hardens as he battles to get comfortable. The sight of this big, powerful hockey player folded into my little old car is suddenly irrationally funny, plus…Fergus. I let out an unintentional giggle that sounds too much like I’m choking back a snort.
Chord shoots me an irritated look as he starts the engine. “Everything all right?”
My heart stops and my eyes grow wide. “What? Oh, yes. I was just thinking that uh… I can drive if you want. It’s my car, after all, and it’s small. You don’t look… comfortable.”
His eyes drop to his legs at the same time mine do, but whatever I found funny about this situation is gone like it never existed. I’m distracted by the way his dark jeans strain over his thick, muscular thighs, and… Oh, God. I’m ogling him.
I look away as fast as I can, but he’s too attractive and he smells so delicious that I can’t find anything else to focus on. My glance darts back, and I’m met with the hard curve of his tricep and the broad lines of his shoulder. I skim my gaze down his arms, but his forearms are muscled, too, and there are his hands—huge, strong, tan, gripping the steering wheel like he knows how to handle it. The skin over my chest starts burning as I try to meet his eyes, but they’re too cool, and by the time I’ve traced his perfect jaw, the smooth column of his neck, and the way his dark hair curls around the edges, I panic and glance at his crotch.
His freakingcrotch.
My cheeks flame as I spin around and stare out the window, my breath coming too fast and prickles springing up on the back of my neck because I canfeelhim watching me.
Holy hell, I’m not fit for society.
