Page 71 of A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime

Crew lifts away from my neck, studying me. His face is flushed, his mouth damp and swollen, and I lean in, pressing my mouth to his once. Twice. “Check your phone,” I whisper.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls his phone out, glancing at the screen before he returns his attention to me. “Almost three.”

A wave of panic washes over me, making all of those delicious, needy feelings disappear, just like that.

“Oh no.” I glance around the car, stopping to stare out the window, but I don’t recognize where we’re at. “I should get home.”

“Birdy, wait—”

“I need to go,” I interrupt. “My dad will be there soon. Or he might already be home. I don’t know. Peter?”

“Yes?” the driver asks, his gaze finding mine in the rearview mirror.

I can’t even be embarrassed that he witnessed us kissing in the back seat. I’m sure I look a mess. I feel like one. All rumpled and hot and flustered. “Can you take me directly to my apartment?”

“Of course. What’s the address?”

I rattle it off to him before I turn my attention to Crew, who looks more than a bit agitated.

And even a little angry.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, a sharp pain stabbing me in the chest. “I hate to rush, but I have to get home. I’m sure my parents are worried.”

Are they though? Maybe not, but my father fully expects me to be home, waiting upon his arrival. I’ve never defied them in my life, and I feel like I’m already in trouble.

Even though I haven’t really done anything wrong.

Crew’s expression softens, and he touches my hair. Cups the side of my head. “I don’t want them to worry about you. Send them a text.”

I shake my head. That’ll just open me up to a litany of questions I don’t want to answer. Not right now, while Crew can bear witness to the interrogation going down. “How far are we from my place, Peter?”

“Twenty minutes if traffic is light,” the driver answers.

“Thank you.” I settle back against the seat, staring out the window, my mind awhirl with all of the terrible possibilities. I can feel Crew watching me and I hate that I’m in the midst of a panic attack in front of him.

He takes my hand, linking our fingers together. “Don’t stress, Birdy.”

“I’m not stressed,” I automatically say, keeping my gaze on the window.

I’m afraid if I look at him, I might burst into tears.

He shifts closer, his mouth once again at my ear. “Liar. I know you better than you think.”

I swallow hard, not saying anything in response.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

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