His eyes dance as he watches my struggle. “What’s your plan here, Jenna? Haul me out of the car and leave me in the street?”
“Yep.” I catch sight of my cousins watching with rapt attention from the stairs, Becca still biting her thumbnail.
“Well, now. That doesn’t sound friendly at all,” he says, flicking the lever to recline to seat a bit so he looks even more relaxed than before.
I try pulling him out again, to no avail. He’s giant and solid, and honestly, just touching him is turning me on. I drop my hands and take a steadying breath as I think about the scene my cousins are watching. A grown woman trying to yank a six-foot-four-inch tattooed male from a car? This must look ridiculous.
Taking a step back, I swipe a lock of my sleek dark hair away from my face and glower at the gray eyes smiling at me. “I’m not trying to be friendly.”
“Clearly.”
Callie’s voice chastises me from the top of the stairs. “Just let him go with you, Jenna. It’ll make everyone feel better.”
He grins up at Callie then at me. “See? I have supporters.”
I sneer. “Just because my cousins think you’re some kind of motorcycle god doesn’t mean I’m putty in your hands. You can’t just tell me that you’re coming along on my road trip.”
“Would you feel better if I asked?”
“Not especially.”
“Jenna.” He leans forward and sinks his eyes into mine in a way he’s only done a handful of times since I’ve known him. It’s an intimate look, a meaningful gaze, and I can feel his eyes boring right through me and down into the deepest parts of my being. “Will you please let me join you on your trip to Louisiana?”
For a moment, I’m lost in his eyes. Speechless. Vulnerable. Then I pull back, straighten my shoulders, and slap on a scowl as I stare at him, pissed.
I don’t trust myself around Jack. And he drives me crazy. Crazy in a way I’ve never been able to control.
But I did spend half the night tossing in my sleep with nightmares about being eaten by some crazy highway psycho—thank you, cousins—and all morning I’ve had doubts about traveling alone. Having Jack tag along might not be so bad. He’s obnoxious, sure, but he’d never let anything bad happen to me. Surely I can manage to keep my panties on around him for a few days… right?
I relent, as per usual when it comes to Jack, but refuse to make eye contact with him as I stomp back to my side of the car. “Fine. But no talking.”
Seeing my concession, my cousins clap their hands in glee and I roll my eyes. The sooner I’m out of Arizona, the better.
“No talking?” he says as I get back in the car and start the engine. “That doesn’t sound reasonable. Or polite.”
I wave good-bye to my onlooking cousins as we pull away. “Shut up.”
“Now that definitely wasn’t polite.”
“Are you still talking?”
“Are you still being rude—”
“Shh!”
He chuckles and lifts the lever on his seat so he’s seated upright again. “Oh, this is going to be fun, Jenna. You’ll see.”
“Shut up.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please shut up.”
He considers for a moment. “No.”
And that’s how the first ten minutes of our “fun” road trip go down; with me snapping at him to shut it, and him defying me with a happy smile.
Ten minutes down, twenty-one hours to go. Louisiana has never felt so far away in my life.
But once we’re on the freeway and headed out of town, the reality of my situation sets in—as does my jaw—and I want to slap myself for letting Jack talk me into this nonsense. I do not need a chaperone, or any other kind of accompaniment, on this trip. I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.
I bite back a curse and grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Damn Jack. How does he manage to get his way with me time and time again? And why do I always cave? Damn me.
From the corner of my eye, I see him glance at me for the fourth time since we left Tempe, and a warm current rushes through my veins. Damn, damn, damn.
We pass a sign that reads COPPER SPRINGS 100 MILES, and I switch lanes to pass a slowpoke car in front of me.
My agreement to this couple’s road trip was a momentary lapse in judgment and, frankly, I blame Jack and his all-knowing eyes. He knows what he does to me. He knows I can’t resist the way he looks at me when he’s being real. Yes. This is his fault, and I’m not about to spend the next few days cooped up in a small space with him just because he has manipulative eyes. We’re turning around.
I glimpse at the endless freeway in front of me and frown.