Page 48 of Twice as Twisted

“Maybe I acted like it,” I mutter.

Baron chuckles, and when I dart a glance at him, his eyes are warm and amused. “Not sure you can be so much of a virgin that someone can tell you’ve never been on a date.”

I shift uncomfortably, my face warming. “What else did he tell you?”

“That you don’t like to be touched,” Baron says, casual, like it’s commonplace.

“And you still showed up,” I muse. “I thought you’d stood me up when you found out.”

“We all have our hang-ups.”

I sit with that for a minute. I can’t imagine a guy like him has hang-ups, and from all the accounts I’ve overheard at school, he doesn’t.

But I’m not bothered by his lie. It’s kind of sweet, that he’d lie to me to make me feel at ease.

“So that’s what his ‘pre-date’ visit really was?” I ask. “You sent him to find out about me?”

“And miss all the fun?” Baron asks. “No way. Getting to know someone is the best part.”

“Then what was it about?”

Baron shrugs the slightest bit, almost imperceptibly, but I’m watching. I think he won’t answer, that he doesn’t want to. I’ve made him uncomfortable.

“What didhesay?” he asks.

“He said he had to make sure I wasn’t going to break your heart.”

“Are you?” Baron asks, turning onto the main road.

I scoff under my breath. “You don’t strike me as the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The type to get your heart broken,” I say. “You’re more of the heartbreaker, if the rumors are true.”

“And what about you, Mabel Darling,” he says, laying a hand on my knee, over my skirt. “Do you break hearts?”

I stare at his hand, willing myself not to move, to let it rest there.

“Never.”

He gives the slightest squeeze, so gentle I barely feel his fingers twitch. “Good.”

I can’t tell if he’s praising me for not breaking hearts or for enduring his touch. Possibly both. I decide I’ll make it a game, to see how long I can last. My skin is crawling already, but I breathe deep and try to distract myself. I wonder what else Duke told him, if he recounted our conversation in the closet, if he mentioned my scars. At least he only saw a few of them. Maybe he didn’t notice at all.

“What did you do to them?” I ask after contemplating for a minute.

“Your family?”

“Did you hurt them?”

“Would you care if I had?” he asks, cocking his head and studying me instead of the road.

I open my mouth to answer, but I can’t think with his hand on me, can’t even tell what the answer is. All the bones in the leg he’s touching have turned to sticks of chalk being dragged down chalkboards. I can’t take it another moment, and I draw my knee away, nearly gagging with relief.

Baron’s watching me, his eyes intense, his mouth shut, not pressing me for answers or overwhelming me with words. I like that about him. He’s patient, like a spider.

I replay his question, watching him back. And suddenly I know from the weight of expectation in his gaze that he’s not just curious. There’s a right answer to this question.

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