Page 43 of The Art of Us by Symone

“Stop,” he grunts. “Give me your phone so that I can text you.”

Part of me is annoyed with how demanding he is; the other side is intrigued.

Caving, I retrieve my phone from the backpack and slide it across the table.

“Unlock it,” he orders.

Huffing, I use my fingerprint to give him access. Brandon collects the phone once I move my hand from the table.

His fingers fly across the screen. Soon, vibrations come from his pocket.

He slides his phone out to save my number and pushes mine back across the table.

As I twist to stick it in my bag, he says, “Text me the art store you like in West Heights.”

I snap my head to him. “Why?”

He huffs in exasperation. “Just do it and stop questioning everything.”

“Fine,” I grumble, straightening when the server comes over with our orders.

We eat in silence. I steal glances at Brandon every few bites, wondering what he wants from me.

Is this his way of showing interest? But how does one date an apparent alpha male that’s also mortified of anyone touching him?

“Thank you for the meal,” I say when we’re back in the car. “And for waiting for me after school.”

He smirks, staring out the windshield at the darkening sky. “I’ll bring you here whenever you want. But I am driving you home every day, and I’ll pick you up in the mornings. Also, we’ll hang out on the weekends.”

“Wait. That sounds like a relationship,” I utter, taken aback.

Brandon looks at me, a serious shadow veiling his face. “Yes, Kayla. You’re now mine.”

“What?” I sputter in surprise. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask, not declare it.”

He lifts a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “I’ll never be all over you. Isn’t that an ideal boyfriend?”

“I’m not sure whether I should feel offended or happy. Ugh.” I wobble my head to push away thoughts of sex with Brandon as they sneak in. “Regardless, I refuse. I’m not yours. Not some object.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “If that’s why you bought me a meal, then I’ll pay you back.”

“Do not leave this car,” he growls, then closes his eyes and draws profound breaths. His knuckles are tight on the wheel. It’s as if he’s fighting to restrain himself. “Let me take you home.” His tone is calm again.

Swallowing, I click the seatbelt and fold my arms. “Let’s go.”

We’re mute the entire drive to my house.

I almost expect Brandon to turn off the car and invite himself inside. But he tells me, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember, I’m picking you up, so mention it to your parents.”

I suck my teeth. “Don’t. Honestly, I’m already your dad’s charity case. My pride can’t handle any more freebies. Doreen would scold me for it.” I pause at the twinge of pain, trying to come to the surface. I force it back into a safe place.

“There it is,” Brandon mutters.

I glance at him. “What?”

His eyes, though the dim car covers the blue hues, they remain menacing as he watches me. “A crack in the mask you wear so well.”

“Whatever. The answer is no. I don’t want you driving me.” I scold the enormous side of me that does.

Brandon rumbles at my refusal. His breathing turns intense. “Don’t you get it? The more you defy me, the harder I want to push.”

“Gosh. There’s a diagnosis for that, you know.” I open the door to escape.

“You’re mine, little artist,” he proclaims before I walk away. “I’ve already decided.”

I pivot to curse him out, but Brandon speeds down the street, disappearing into the night.

What the hell. When did he draw that conclusion?

Stomping to the front door, I rummage for my keys and replay the conversations in my room on Friday night. But I cannot pinpoint the moment Brandon Decker chose me for a relationship without touch.

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