Page 44 of Strung Along

“Are you okay?” she rushes out, panicked.

My reply is weak, confusion distracting me. “I’m fine. I have to go, but I’ll text you later.”

“I—alright. We’ll talk later.”

“Bye, Banana,” I mutter.

“Bye, Bo,” she replies, and then our call drops.

I try to ignore the worry in those final two words as I park in front of the salon and stare at the window, still bright with light. When Anna glides into view, I can’t look away.

Instead of having her hair tied back like it was this morning, it’s hanging free down her back. I haven’t seen much of her body beneath her bulky jackets, but I wasn’t expecting the sight of her without one to leave me so breathless. She’s wearing a tight grey long-sleeve that emphasizes the curves of her waist and generous chest. Generous is an understatement. I’ve never looked before, and maybe that’s a good thing. It’s hard to drop my gaze, but once I do, I feel my cheeks burn.

The twitch of my dick in my jeans makes me feel like a perv. I knew she was gorgeous, but I didn’t know she was like thateverywhere. I won’t be able to forget that fact now that I know it.

She steps out of view, and the lights go out. My throat works with a thick swallow as I wait for her to lock up. On instinct, I’m out of the truck and rounding the hood at the same time she starts heading toward me. As if accepting that I’m going to open the door for her every time, she smiles at me and waits for me to do just that.

“Thank you,” she says, accepting the gesture.

“’Course.”

I step up behind her, lingering as she pushes herself up and into the truck. Once she’s settled, I shut the door and try to steady my steps on the way back to my side.

She’s skipping through the songs on the screen when I’m back behind the wheel. A swirl of discomfort moves throughmy stomach when the opening notes of my latest song fill the speakers. A brow quirked, Anna looks at me from the corner of her eye, as if testing my reaction to the song choice.

“I’m going to guess from that look that you don’t listen to your own music?”

“Not unless I’m singin’ it,” I answer honestly.

Interest flares in her eyes as she stares at me head-on. “Would you ever sing for me?”

I sling my arm over the back of her seat and look over my shoulder while reversing the truck out of the parking spot. The sherpa collar of her jacket tickles my fingers. I stroke the pad of my finger over it, feeling the heat radiating from her neck.

“I keep forgetting that you like my music.”

“I doubt many people don’t like your music, Brody.”

“You’d be surprised.”

I pull onto the road, the ice still slick beneath my tires. Anna’s breath hitches when we fishtail slightly. Before I can think twice about it, I’m shooting my arm out and placing my hand on her thigh, gripping it tight. I meant it to be reassuring, calming, but when she stops breathing altogether, I snatch my hand back, the warmth of her leg burning my palm.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, twisting the leather steering wheel over and over again.

Her exhale is shaky, but at least she’s breathing now. “It’s fine! I just wasn’t expecting that.”

Me either.“I don’t go around touching women without their permission. It won’t happen again.”

“I was more concerned about the ice.”

“Oh.”

Her laugh is smooth before climbing in pitch at the end the way it always does. It’s a soothing sound, at least for me.

“I’m a good driver. I won’t let anything happen to?—”

That laugh.

My promise dies in my throat. I want to look at her. Want to ask her to pull out her phone and show me her messages. But I’mnotgoing to do that. Fuck, that’s an asshole thing to even consider.

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