Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)(14)

Him.

She knew it even before she tilted her head the rest of the way up. Even before she saw the light in his eyes, the hesitant smile on his lips.

He gave her a little tug, and she rose to her feet, then gasped as he placed his free hand on her waist to steady her.

"You work at the cafe?"

"I-I'm sorry, what?"

His eyes narrowed. "You sure you're okay?"




       
         
       
        
I don't think I'll ever be okay again.

"Sure. Yes. I mean, my ego's more bruised than my rear." She stepped back, out from under his touch. She regretted the loss of contact, but had to cheer the return of rational thought. "I wasn't watching where I was going. I was in a hurry."

"So I noticed. You must have somewhere to be."

"I do. I have to fetch my brother."

He nodded. "Too bad."

"Too bad?"

A dimple flashed with his quick smile. "That means you don't have time to grab some French fries with me."

"Oh. I-" She swallowed her words as panic started to rise. She didn't know how to talk to him. She didn't know how to talk to boys at all, especially boys who made her feel like this, the way she shouldn't feel. The way she knew her father would say was dangerous for a girl.

"I'm sorry," she finally mumbled to her shoes. "I'm late. I really have to go."

And then she took off, making it a point not to look back. Not to think about him.

But that smile-and that dimple-lingered in her mind.





5


The sharp blare of a horn startles me from my reverie, and I jerk the steering wheel to one side, barely missing the BMW that had been approaching on my right as I tried to change lanes.

I clutch the wheel tighter, my heart pounding in my chest as I carefully maneuver my 1969 Mustang convertible across two lanes and into the parking lot of a Ralph's grocery store. I pull into a spot, kill the engine, and drop my face into my palms.

What the devil is wrong with me? I'm a careful driver, I always have been. I don't text, talk on the phone, or get lost in thought while I'm driving. I went to the classes. I saw the Driver's Ed videos. I know what can happen if you're not careful behind the wheel. And I'm most definitely not one of those people who believe that the bad stuff will never happen to them.

I know better, after all. I've pissed fate off once already; I'm not inclined to do it again.

Not to mention the fact that Griffin rebuilt this car himself and gave it to me for my twenty-fifth birthday. With its sky blue paint, shiny chrome trim and white leather interior, it's about the prettiest car I've ever seen. So there's no way I'd risk scratching her, much less wreck her. I named her Blue, and I totally baby her. Regular maintenance. Monthly detailing. And absolutely no reckless driving.

Griffin's always telling me I'm not letting Blue live up to her full potential, although he usually says that after a couple of drinks and with his narrowed eyes laser-focused on me. I ignore him, though. Both the blatant statement about the car and the more subtle indictment of my life. 

So despite Griffin's repeated protests that the engine is a dream and I should take Blue out to the desert, put a scarf over my hair, and open her up, I think Blue and I are doing just fine.

Or at least we were until I almost drove her into the side of a silver Beemer. But that wasn't my fault. Not really.

That little near miss is all on him.

Wyatt.

Once again, he's filled my head. Once again, he's made me lose control.

He's dangerous. To me, to my heart, and to everyone around me.

With a sigh, I let my head fall back against the leather. I've turned the AC off, and the sun beats down on me, making my mind drift back to the summer before I turned sixteen.

I'd been happy-so ecstatically happy. At least until the moment I wasn't.

And now here I am, putting all my hopes in the hands of a man I know only too well I should run from.

But I can't.

And the secret, horrible, deep-down truth is that I'm not even sure I want to.

"Kelsey," I say to the sky. "You're a mess."

I frown. To be more specific, I'm a mess who's about to take her clothes off in front of who-knows-how-many gawking men.

Clearly, I'm a crazy person.

Determined. But crazy.

I sit up straight and grab my phone to call Nia. Not only do I need to chew her out for not telling me that W. Royce is Wyatt Segel, but I also need her wardrobe advice. Because despite umpty-billion dance recitals over the course of my life, I don't have a clue which of my costumes I should wear with an eye to removing it.

Unfortunately, I only get her voicemail, and after leaving a message, I slide my phone back into my purse.