North watches me cross my legs, our gazes connecting as he closes the door and skirts around back of the Chevy. He throws open the trunk and in the rearview, I watch as he tugs on a shirt, drags a hasty hand through his hair, unwraps his hands and tosses the used tape into the opening. Once he closes the trunk again, he braces his hands on the edge of it, taking a long breath and expelling it, leaving white, curling patterns in the night air. I’m not the only one who is nervous. Or trying to get a hold of themselves.
A moment later, he gets into the driver’s side, his head brushing the roof of the car, his big fighter’s body taking up all the air—or all of my air, for that matter. With a twist of his wrist, the engine rumbles to life and we pull away from the curb. It’s happening. It’s really happening. This fighter from the Hellmouth is driving me home. It’s risky. It would be a punishable offense in my father’s book. And yet, I feel as safe as houses.
“Where are we going, Gracie?”
Where ahh we goin’, Gracie.
His Southie accent tickles my erogenous zones like the tip of a feather and I curl my fingers into the edge of the leather seat, holding on for dear life against what this guy makes me feel. Like I’m on the highest point of a roller coaster about to drop straight down. “Beacon Hill. Chestnut Street. Do you…know it?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Nah, beauty. I don’t know a thing about Beacon Hill.”
My face heats over asking him such a dumb question. Of course he wouldn’t know my neighborhood. The same way I don’t know South Boston. “It’s okay, I can give you directions.” I scrub my hands up and down my thighs. “Thank you for doing this. Driving me home. My friends…their antics were worse than usual tonight. I wish I could blame a senior year power trip or the alcohol, but that’s pretty much them on a regular basis.”
“That’s not you, though,” he states. “You don’t seem the type to be in Southie after dark stirring up trouble.”
“You’re right. I’m not.” I rub my lips together. “Then again, this…taking a ride home from someone I don’t know isn’t typical behavior for me, either.”
“What is typical behavior for you?”
Our gazes collide across the console and I can see he’s genuinely interested, those golden eyes cutting through the darkness and tracing my features. The way he looks at me is so powerful, it almost feels like his hands are on me, dragging up and down my exposed skin. “Typical behavior for me?” I say unevenly, wracked by a warm shiver. “I’m…well, I’m the senior class president. I’m captain of the flag team. A founding member of the science club. I guess you could say I’m kind of…focused on making my college applications look good. That seems to be the entire focus of my life. And it always has been.”
I expect him to roll his eyes over my goody two-shoes answer, but instead his brow is furrowed, as if he’s focused on every word. “So your typical behavior is being an overachiever.”
“Is that your polite way of calling me a nerd?” We share a chuckle. “Yeah, I guess you could say I’m an overachiever,” I say quietly, as he pulls onto the highway. “But it’s never felt like it’s for…me. A lot of it is trying to please my father.”
North hums in his throat. “What do you do to please yourself?”
Awareness ripples across my senses, the tiny muscles of my femininity pulling taut like a violin string. “I…I…”
“I didn’t mean that like it sounded, Gracie,” North says gruffly, dragging a hand down his open mouth. “I meant, what do you do for fun? Didn’t seem like you were having a good time with your friends.”
No. I wasn’t. In fact, it’s been a long time since I enjoyed myself with them.
But as far as answering his question? What do I do for fun?
I can’t formulate a response. There’s just…nothing.
“I don’t know,” I say, kind of hollowly. “Everything feels like a duty. Going from point A to point B without a thought as to why. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. What’s expected of me. Hanging out with the kids of my parents’ friends. Joining the right committees. Not letting all of the balls drop, when sometimes…I’d just like to drop kick them into the harbor.”
North is silent for a long moment. And then, “Is that what this is?” He gestures between us. “Am I your way of rebelling?”
“What? No!” I turn to him in the seat, my hand automatically going to his thick bicep. He hisses a breath at the contact, his jaw slackening. Unsure if that response is good or bad, I draw my hand back and curl it in my lap. He stares after it, as if he wants to grab it back, but won’t. Or maybe isn’t sure if I’d like it. “I’m not spending time with you on some…some quest to make my father angry or buck the norm. I—”