Page 24 of Sin Bin

Abruptly he pushes away from me, and the space gives me the first opportunity to breathe since he decided to playdirty.

The relief is short-lived.

As his long legs eat up the distance toward my office door, he tosses over his shoulder, “Your schedule from hell has the interview set for this Thursday. Text me your address. We’ll takemycar.”

The thought of Andre running into my family sends me surging toward him. “No! You can’t—I mean, we’ll meet here. At GoldenLights.”

Black eyes land on my face. “Your house, Zoe. Let me pickyouup.”

As if we’re going on a date and not a road tripfromhell.

Words flee my brain, and all I can do is watch him as he pauses in the doorframe, one big hand planted on the wood. Thanks to his size, he has to duck a little, probably in worry that he might scrape the top of his head and lose some much-needed braincells.

“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he says. With a closed fist, he knocks on the frame and then offers me a brief smile. “Nice flip-flops, by the way.Verychic.”

And withthatparting comment, Andre leaves me to stand there, my feet stuck in a pair of one-dollar sandals and a coffee stain over my leftnipple.

ChapterEight

ZOE

Twenty-One Days Left…

It’sthe butt-crack of dawn when Andre pulls up outside of my house on the followingThursday.

Foura.m.

I’m convinced that the only reason four a.m. should ever be seen is if you’re stumbling home after an all-night boozerandyou’ve lost both your shoes and yourdignity.

While I recently had to put down my favorite pair of stilettos (R.I.P Manolo), my dignity is mostly still intact.Somewhat.

Andre’s headlights flash again, illuminating the dark living room where I’m camped out on the couch. I’ve been ready since two, thanks to the jittery nerves that haven’t eased since I first laid down for theevening.

The walls of the living room glow, shadows dancing across its dark expanse as the car lights stress the driver’simpatience.

With a groan of displeasure, I roll onto my side, legs slipping onto the floor. My feet go into an old pair of gym shoes, and my hand grapples in the dark for the strap of my oversizedpurse.

Quietly, so I don’t wake my family, I escape out the front door. Since my dad lives in the heart of Somerville, a close suburb of Boston, the street is lit with streetlamps. An ambulance’s sirens kick off in the distance, and I swear I can hear Tom Fedd’s baby crying bloody murdernextdoor.

But the interior of Andre’s car is dark, so dark that I can barely see him sitting in thedriver’sseat.

His door opens. Like a shadow creeping through the night, he unfolds his body from the car, leaving the driver’s sidedoorajar.

“Want me to put your bag in the trunk?” he asks, his voice still rusty with sleep. I’m ashamed to admit it, but the rustiness does things to my girl parts. Things I would rather not feel when it comes to AndreBeaumont.

I glance down at my bag. “I stocked up on snacks fortheride.”

His shoes crunch over the gravel until he’s two feet away. In the early morning, he’s more silhouette than anything else. His features are a mosaic of slashed shadows stretching over the bridge of his nose and carving out the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes, though, are obscured, thanks to the baseball hat he’swearing.

I want to reach up and tip it back with my finger—get a read on his mood thismorning.

In other words—is this drive to New York City going to be as painful as I imagine it will be? God, Ihopenot.

Andre’s chin dips, indicating my bag. “I thought maybe we could stop for some breakfast along the way . . . . I know how you get when you’rehungry.”

Surprise straightens my shoulders. “Not going to lie—I thought you’d take the starve-me approach thismorning.”

Eyes still hidden by the brim of his ball cap, I watch the way he swallows, hard. “I thought about it, trust me. Just let you waste away during thedrive.”

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