Page 16 of Wallflower
It’s quiet for an awkward moment, and I don’t trust myself to turn around when Chord clears his throat and backs out of the car space. “I know the way, and this car isn’t made for rough terrain. It’s safer and faster if I drive.”
“Okay.” I wrap my hands around the leather strap of my satchel, then brave a sideways look at Chord. He’s concentrating on the road, expression blank, and I breathe a little easier. Maybe he didn’t notice the way I practically undressed him with my eyes.
Oh, crap. Now I’m thinking about him naked. The smooth hard muscles of his chest, his shoulders flexing as I gaze up at him from the pillows. Hovering above me and touching me with those incredible hands. They’d be gentle but rough. Calloused from hockey. Confident, of course. Firm. Demanding. Talented. Relentless.
My cheeks blaze again, and I jerk my head away, staring hard at the scenery sliding past the car.
I’m suddenly thankful that Chord Davenport is the way he is—cold, distant, and difficult to read. Even under the same roof, he’ll want as little to do with me as possible, and it’s so much better that way.I’llfeel better that way.
It might be fun to think about a man like Chord looking at me in a way that makes my breath catch, but I’m not ready for that. I’ll never be ready for that.
Chord’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met, but I’ll never understand him or be comfortable when he’s around. If I want to survive the summer and keep my job, I need to focus on the work and make myself all but invisible to the person sitting next to me.
I kind of want to laugh again because who am I kidding? He’s the hottest, richest, and most recognized player in the NHL. I’m a plain little marketing assistant with a confidence problem anda sketchbook full of broken dreams. Chord Davenport would never look twice at a girl like me.
eight
Chord
I don’t say anythingand neither does Violet as we get into her car. It’s tiny and old, and no good for driving on country roads. I’m already pissed off and Violet’s transportation isn’t my problem, but the fact that my assistant drives this sorry excuse for a vehicle makes my mood even worse. She can’t rely on this all summer, which means she’ll need the key to my truck.
I adjust the driver’s seat over and over, trying and failing to make room for my legs. If I was the kind of guy who grumbled, I would.
I knew my reunion with Charlie was going to be difficult, but I wasn’t prepared for an audience and Violet’s early arrival put me at a disadvantage. The only person in the world as determined as me is Charlie, and if I tried to argue with her about whether or not we have a cabin available, she’d have burned the books—possibly the cabins, too—before admitting she lied.
And dropping my middle name like that? Didn’t even bat a fucking eyelash and she knows how much I hate it. Facts are that my sister plays dirty, I was about to lose the fight, and I wasn’t about to let anyone witness that. Not even my assistant.
A weird noise from the passenger seat interrupts my thoughts. Violet looks startled, like she accidentally swallowed gum or something.
I frown with irritation. “Everything all right?”
She looks at me with wide eyes and squeezes her fingers around the strap of that ugly leather satchel. “What? Oh, yes. I was just thinking that, uh… I can drive if you want. It’s my car, after all, and it’s small. You don’t look… comfortable.”
Her eyes fall from my face to my legs, and I follow her gaze. I’m sure I look ridiculous in this tin can, but I’m not letting her drive. I’m about to tell her as much, but then stop.
I usually know when a woman is checking me out, but I’m not sure about this one. Her eyes dart all over the place, bouncing across my body like drops of water on a hotplate. When she spins around like she’s been caught doing something naughty, I decide sheischecking me out, but that she doesn’t mean to. It’s not what I’m used to, and it’s cute as fuck.
I fight the amused twitch of my lips because cute or not, she’s not my type—thank God—but even if she were, I know better than to get distracted by a woman this year.
I throw the car into reverse and back out of the parking space. “I know the way, and this car isn’t made for rough terrain. It’s safer and faster if I drive.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, but I can barely hear her with her face turned toward her window.
Silence suits me and we drive the distance to my private road without conversation.
When we get past the gate and finally roll onto asphalt, I drive a little easier. I’m not taking in the scenery the way I was earlier in the morning, though. I’m too busy fuming about how my summer got screwed and now I’ve been saddled with a housemate I don’t want, but then a gasp from Violet pulls me back to the present.
She’s leaning forward and craning her neck to get a better look out the windshield, and when I follow her line of sight, I see she’s staring at my house.
Okay, yeah. It’s awesome.
I swing the car around with one hand, taking the corner as wide as I can to give her the best view, then pause outside the house to fish out my phone, swipe to my home automation app, and open the garage door. When I pull her car into a free space, it looks ridiculous next to the sports coupe to our right and my truck on the left, but I don’t want to embarrass her so I keep my head down as I pop the trunk and take out her bags.
She’s got two suitcases—one large, one smaller—but when I reach in to pull out an oversized black canvas tote wedged into the back seat, she lurches forward and snatches it up before I can get a hand on it.
“I’ll take that one,” Violet says. “It’s personal.”
I give her and the bag a curious look, wonder what’s in it for a fleeting moment, then decide I don’t care. I don’t need to know what she’s hiding.
