Page 56 of Tempting Little Thief

“Poor Boy.”

His lip quirks and he steps back. “Well, come on, then.”

“Where?”

He ignores me, opens the passenger door and moves to his. He doesn’t look my way as he climbs inside; he just does it, and then he waits.

My eyes dart around the space on instinct, just in case this is a setup and I’ve been blind this whole time and he’s trying to infiltrate the grounds like some black ops badass shit, but there’s no one in sight.

I have two hours of free time that technically won’t start for another handful of minutes, but I’m already here.

My phone starts buzzing in my pocket and I know it’s Dom, likely the girls too, wondering what happened and ready to help with whatever it is.

I don’t dig it from my bag, but I do slide the golden cuff down my wrist and lift it to the scanner. The gate creaks as it opens, and I slip through the gap before it’s done, slamming it closed.

I sit on the towel covering the torn leather of the ancient Cutlass and look to Bastian. “So. Where are we going?”

He pushes my hair over my shoulder, ignores me, then off we go.

My eyes are glued to Bastian. Stuck like a fly to honey.

When he said he was outside, I figured he wanted … honestly, I have no idea.

All I had time to process was the fact that he was outside of Greyson Elite and he wanted me to come to him, and as slightly troubling as it is, I wanted to. More than that, though, I didn’t want the guards to find him.

Maybe somewhere, deep down, I’m afraid he’s not a random guy I met in the dark, but I’m a trick he’s turning.

Maybe I don’t want to know who he really is and where he really comes from.

Maybe … I do want to know him better and that’s why I couldn’t allow our little bubble to be popped by what would follow if he was found lurking outside a school full of influential men’s kin.

Either way, no part of me expected to be propped on top of a park picnic table that’s been painted one too many times, watching as Bastian glares at a grill.

We haven’t said a whole lot outside of our usual banter, but he’s been moving nonstop.

There’s foil beside me and a small grocery bag he digs into every once in a while. When he lights a wad of napkins on fire, dropping them on top of a pile of half-burned coals, I almost worry he’s playing it by ear, but he seems to know what he’s doing.

What he’s doing … is barbequing.

Apparently, he’s getting hot doing it because he sets down the switchblade he’s using as a utensil and peels off his jacket, tossing it at me.

I catch it at the last second, narrowing my gaze on him, and he cracks a small smile.

“Just making sure you weren’t zoning out on me,” he says, turning back to the grill.

I fold the weathered leather and set it neatly in my lap. “Oh, I’m zoned in. Wondering how you became so domesticated,” I tease.

“Used to have a chore rotation at the group home.” Bastian shrugs. “Punks love them some barbeque.”

Group home? He doesn’t elaborate, so I leave it be.

“I can’t believe you’re cooking for me right now.”

“I’m not.” He flashes me a grin over his shoulder, a few dark strands of his hair falling over his forehead with the move, and my god, the heat that spreads through me. “I’m cooking for me, but I’ll share.” He glares then as if thinking better of it. “Food. I’ll share food … wait.” His features sharpen more, gaze, once again, darting my way. “This kind of food, feel me?”

A laugh bubbles up in me, and I look down, realizing my fingers are running across the cool leather in my lap. My eyes catch on the sewn-in tag at the collar. Written in the same perfect cursive on the note from his wallet. “Bishop.”

Our eyes meet, and he frowns, dropping his to the jacket.

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