Page 9 of Not Made to Last

“Aw, do I have to?” Rhys smirks over at them. “I think my audience likes the show.”

Smug.

It’s the only way to describe him.

Rhys Garrett is a smug motherfucker.

And I’m only just realizing it now.

5

Olivia

After getting advice from the doctor to ice his wounds, Rhys lifts Max into his arms and carries him all the way to my truck. Max never wakes. It’s a thoughtful move—one I wasn’t expecting.

I buckle Max into his car seat, making sure he’s safe, and then get behind the wheel. Already in the passenger’s seat, Rhys watches me, his arms crossed as if contemplating my next move. I start the car, and then… I just sit there because I have no idea where to go from here.

Literally and figuratively.

I have so many thoughts racing through my mind, and I push away all the forbidden ones first. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I honestly didn’t think I hit you that hard, but it looks?—”

“Worse than it feels,” Rhys finishes for me. “I’ve had more serious injuries playing ball.”

I nod, assuming as much. Though, I doubt he would’ve gone to the hospital for those, so why now? “Hey, why did you tell the doctor it was a hit-and-run?”

He seems distracted when he answers, “I wasn’t sure if they had to report it to the cops. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

I never even thought of that.

He adds, “I’m not going to sue you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

A giggle forms in my chest, but never escapes. “Not gonna lie, the thought did cross my mind.”

He stares ahead as he shifts in his seat. “Of course it did,” he mumbles. But the way he says it—as if it’s all he expects from the world—it’s kind of… sad.

“I mean… if I recall correctly, I offered to take you even before I knew who you were, so…” I’m trying to console him, and I don’t know why. “I would’ve done it, either way.”

“Yeah, but would you have stayed?” he asks, his focus on me again.

Honestly? “Probably not.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Silence stretches between us, and I don’t know what else to do. What else to say. I put the car in gear. “I should probably take you home.”

He releases a long, drawn-out sigh, his head rolling against the headrest. “What if…” he starts, then shakes his head.

“What if… what?”

Another sigh. “I want to ask you something, but I don’t want you to take it the wrong way.”

This can’t be good. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I tell him, “Ask me anyway.”

“You guys gotta be somewhere?” He pauses a moment. “I mean, do you have to get your kid home?” I don’t get a chance to respond before he adds, “Because I’m thinking we drive somewhere and… hang out. We can sit in your car and just… talk.”

“Um…”

“Or not talk. Just, you know, stare blankly at the space in front of us…”

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