Page 75 of Freckles

“Nothing much. It was beyond saving.” He opens the passenger door on the flashy vehicle, waving his hand towards it. “Hurry up. We’re cutting it fine to reach homeroom on time.”

“No, I want to ride in my own damn car.”

“That’ll be a problem.” He reaches inside, then holds up a tangled collection of valves and wires. “I grabbed these but don’t have the slightest idea how to put them back. You?”

I rub my forehead. Awful as his behaviour is, it hits my funny bone, and I struggle to hold back laughter.

Resist!!!

“Nice to see you checking off the abusive scorecard.” I force a stern expression and count them off on my fingers. “First you stalk me at school, then you invite yourself into my home. You more than likely are the reason my best friend no longer talks to me.” I narrow my eyes, but his expression doesn’t alter enough to tell me if I’m right or wrong. “Now you’re stripping away my only form of transport.” I fold my arms and glare. “Call a mechanic if you don’t know how to fix what you broke. I’ll wait.”

“You forgot handing in your resignation without your input, and your list sounds a bit judgemental for agirlfriend.”He arches an eyebrow at the reminder, then pulls a set of keys from his pocket, tossing them to me. “Besides, this isn’t my vehicle. It’s yours.”

“It’s…” I stare at him in disbelief, then gaze at the expensive machine parked behind him. “What?”

He clamps his lips together, failing to hide the smile. “You need a new car, and this is surplus to requirements, so it’s yours.” He opens the passenger side door, resting his palm on the low window. “The title is currently in another name but that’s just till I sort your insurance.”

“You’ve giving me this car?” I don’t even know which part to emphasise. That’s he’sgivingme a car or that it’sthis car.The type of vehicle girls like me aren’t meant to own. “What happened to me paying off the debt?”

“It keeps growing larger and larger, just like…”

He smirks and before he can reference what I know he’s going to, I break in with, “Can you drive us to school? My hands are shaking.”

I toss the keys back and get into the passenger seat while he walks to the driver’s side of the car.

My car.

I sit inside, running my hands over the dashboard before closing the door with a satisfyingthunk.

“It’s a gift, Freckles, not something you need to repay.”

I lean across the centre console and kiss him, surprising both of us, and it’s nice. Better than nice. My fingers stroke his luscious hair, tugging when the ache in my chest grows until it hurts… yet still feels strangely good.

A small cry of protest escapes my throat when he pulls away, his strange bronze eyes glowing, his expression dazed.

Satisfaction fills me at the evidence I’ve thrown him off-kilter. A gasp of power that—if nurtured—could turn into a roar.

When Kincaid starts the engine, he clears his throat a few times before resuming the previous conversation. “You’re right that my uncle is rich, but he still makes me work for my money, it’s not handed to me. I’ve been doing jobs for him since I was fourteen.”

“Ridiculously high-paying jobs.”

He flashes his beautiful smile. “Well, I do have specialised skills.”

The knuckles gripping the wheel are crisscrossed with scars, covered in fresh bruises. “Okay, I concede the point.”

I return his easy grin before I can stop myself. Then leave it in place because it’s too late to take back, and it feels good to laughwithhim instead of at my expense.

Kincaid leans over and pulls the seatbelt across my chest, his knuckles pressing against my chest, goosebumps erupting from his touch. His face hovers close enough to see every detail of his exquisite features while his breath whispers across my throat.

Taking his time, he adjusts the strap to lie flat, each accidental caress sending a tingle into my core until it pulses with anticipation.

His broad palm briefly cups my cheek, thumb stroking across the freckled skin near my hairline. There’s a guttural note to his voice as he says, “That’s better. We don’t want you to die if I pump the brakes too hard.”

No. Wouldn’t want to kill me by accident before you drown me on purpose.

The retort is right there, on my lips, but I swallow it, not wanting to spoil the moment.

A six-foot-four drop-dead handsome rugby god just bought me a fantasy car and no matter the consequences still to come, I’m going to revel in the vegan leather upholstery, the solidity of the seat moulded like he knew my exact dimensions and had it handmade to size. I’ll enjoy the quiet hum of the engine. A motor that doesn’t care if the ground is white with frost.

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