Page 26 of Beautiful Collide

“I asked for help, and Dane offered you up on a platter.” He pulls his phone from his pocket again, holding it up.

“No way.”

“Here. See for yourself.” He lifts his phone until it’s dangling in my face, his smirk deepening.

And true to his words . . . there, clear as day, it says:

Dane:Ask Molly. I’m sure she would be happy to help.

Bastard.

I clench my jaw, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. Although driving Hudson is the last thing I want to do right now, I can’t say no.

Not now. Not when my brother—the guy who basically saved my life without even really knowing it—just freaking told him to ask me.

I shove his phone out of my face and readjust my bag over my shoulder, my glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Get in the car.”

His brows lift in surprise. “Just like that?”

“You heard me,” I snap, unlocking the doors. “Apparently, I’m your chauffeur now. We need to leave. Now. The Weather Channel mentioned a crazy storm later tonight, and I really don’t want to have to drive in that.”

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Hudson says, his voice annoyingly cheerful.

“And your car?” I gesture to the beautiful car that won’t take him anywhere.

“Guess I have no choice but to leave her.” He sighs, glancing back at it. “I can’t afford to be late.”

“Says the guy who missed the plane because he was already late,” I mutter, raising an eyebrow.

“That was beyond my control.”

“Sure.”

He looks at me like he wants to say something. Maybe fire an insult at me, or perhaps something else. I can’t place the look in his eyes. Other than exhaustion, he looks dead to the world with hollow, dark bags under his eyes.

“I can drive,” he offers, his voice softer now.

“Um, this isn’t the 1920s, Wilde.” I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes at him. “Women are capable of driving.”

“I never said you weren’t capable.” His lips quirk up into a teasing grin. “Jeez. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed . . . again?”

“Seriously? Are you really insulting me after asking for a favor?”

His eyes widen as if it’s finally dawning on him that I do not, in fact, need to give him a lift.

I raise my brow, tapping my foot impatiently. “Well?”

“Nope.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “You drive. I’m tired anyway.”

“Long night?”

“You can say that,” he mutters, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Eh.” I give him a pointed look. “Is this your way of saying you were up all night with God knows who doing God knows what?”

“You, of all people, should know that getting laid isn’t the reason I’m ever late,” he says with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Why would I know that?” My tone is sharp. Defensive.

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