Page 6 of The Hearts We Fumble
Instead, he clicks a few buttons, then finally—smug as ever—drops the phone back into my palm.
“There. I took care of canceling it for you.”
I stare at the screen, blinking.
“You did what?”
He crosses his arms, unbothered. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll give you a ride.”
I gape at him. “Are you kidding me? You canceled my ride? What if I don’t want to ride with you?”
A slow, infuriating smirk lifts the corner of his mouth.
“Looks like you don’t have much choice, now do you?”
I open my mouth—ready to lay into him—but he gestures behind me toward the sports medicine clinic across the street.
I turn my head, my eyes narrowing as I take in the line of cars crammed along the curb.
So that’s why he’s here.
He wasn’t here for me. He was just looking for somewhere to park his car.
Him and that stupid fucking car.
I grit my teeth just thinking about it.
As if Zane Kinnick wasn’t already infuriatingly hot, he had to go and drive a black ’67 Pontiac GTO, a car so damn pretty it should be illegal.
“Don’t even think about calling another ride,” he warns, already jogging across the street toward the sports medicine clinic. “I just need to pick up some paperwork. I’ll be right back, and then I’ll give you a ride home.”
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. I wasn’t going to argue with him. Getting a ride from Zane was better than paying a hundred bucks for an Uber back to Braysen.
Keaton was about twenty minutes from home, mostly highway miles cutting across the Savannah River, marking the line between Georgia and South Carolina.
I wait until he disappears inside before I let myself glance over, watching as he moves with easy confidence, his fitted shirt pulling tight over his shoulders, denim hugging his thighs like the designer had him in mind when they made them.
Quit while you’re ahead, Wyatt.
Shaking the thought away, I shove in one of my earbuds and pull up a playlist, the bass-heavy music buzzing through my chest as I pop a breath mint in my mouth.
Barely five minutes pass before I hear the familiar sound of his throaty exhale.
“All right, you ready?”
I glance up just as he stops in front of me.
“You’re the boss,” I mutter, tossing the mint tin into my bag and holding my hands up in mock surrender. “Lead the way.”
He rolls his eyes, stepping off the curb, but he still looks both ways before gesturing for me to follow. Like I’m not capable of crossing a street by myself.
We don’t walk far. His precious GTO is parked a few cars down, gleaming under the morning sun.
Zane doesn’t ask questions—not yet, at least—but I should’ve known better than to think he’d let me off easy.
Just as he shoves his key in the lock, he glances up, eyes narrowing over the roof of his car.
“You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing in Keaton yet?”
