The insane urge to ruffle his hair like I would a kid’s gripped me, just so he’d stop looking so perfect—which was quite irritating to the rest of us mere mortals—but I didn’t have a death wish, so I kept my hands planted in my lap.
“If I take you to Crumble & Bake, will you stop talking?”
No doubt he regretted picking me up.
My smile grew. “If you want.”
His lips thinned. “Fine.”
Yes!
Ava Chen: One.
Alex Volkov: Zero.
When we arrived at the bakery, I unbuckled my seatbelt and was halfway out the door when Alex grabbed my arm and pulled me back into my seat. Contrary to what I’d expected, his touch wasn’t cold—it was scorching, and it burned through my skin and muscles until I felt its warmth in the pit of my stomach.
I swallowed hard. Stupid hormones. “What? We’re already late, and they’re closing soon.”
“You can’t go out like that.” The tiniest hint of disapproval etched into the corners of his mouth.
“Like what?” I asked, confused. I wore jeans and a T-shirt, nothing scandalous.
Alex inclined his head toward my chest. I glanced down and let out a horrified yelp. Because my shirt? White. Wet. Transparent. Not even a little transparent, like you could kind of see my bra outline if you looked hard enough. This was full-on see-through. Red lace bra, hard nipples—thanks, air-conditioning—the whole shebang.
I crossed my arms over my chest, my face flaming the same color as my bra. “Was it like this the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“I did tell you. Just now.”
Sometimes, I wanted to strangle him. I really did. And I wasn’t even a violent person. I was the same girl who didn’t eat gingerbread man cookies for years after watching Shrek because I felt like I was eating Gingy’s family members or, worse, Gingy himself, but something about Alex provoked my dark side.
I exhaled a sharp breath and dropped my arms by instinct, forgetting about my see-through shirt until Alex’s gaze flicked down to my chest again.
The flaming cheeks returned, but I was sick of sitting here arguing with him. Crumble & Bake closed in ten minutes, and the clock was ticking.
Maybe it was the man, the weather, or the hour and a half I’d spent stuck under a bus shelter, but my frustration spilled out before I could stop it. “Instead of being an asshole and staring at my breasts, can you lend me your jacket? Because I really want to get this cake and send my brother, your best friend, off in style before he leaves the country.”
My words hung in the air while I clapped a hand over my mouth, horrified. Did I just utter the word “breasts” to Alex Volkov and accuse him of ogling me? And call him an asshole?
Dear God, if you smite me with lightning right now, I won’t be mad. Promise.
Alex’s eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. It ranked in the top five most emotional responses I’d pulled out of him in eight years, so that was something.
“Trust me, I was not staring at your breasts,” he said, his voice frigid enough to transform the lingering drops of moisture on my skin into icicles. “You’re not my type, even if you weren’t Josh’s sister.”
Ouch. I wasn’t interested in Alex either, but no girl enjoys being dismissed so easily by a member of the opposite sex.
“Whatever. There’s no need to be a jerk about it,” I muttered. “Look, C&B closes in two minutes. Just let me borrow your jacket, and we can get out of here.”
I’d pre-paid online, so all I needed was to grab the cake.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I’ll get it. You’re not leaving the car dressed like that, even wearing my jacket.”
Alex yanked an umbrella out from beneath his seat and exited the car in one fluid motion. He moved like a panther, all coiled grace and laser intensity. If he wanted, he could make a killing as a runway model, though I doubted he’d ever do anything so “gauche.”
He returned less than five minutes later with Crumble & Bake’s signature pink-and-mint-green cake box tucked beneath one arm. He dumped it in my lap, snapped his umbrella closed, and reversed out of the parking spot without so much as blinking.
“Do you ever smile?” I asked, peeking inside the box to make sure they hadn’t messed up the order. Nope. One Death by Chocolate, coming right up. “It might help with your condition.”
“What condition?” Alex sounded bored.
“Stickuptheassitis.” I’d already called the man an asshole, so what was one more insult?
I might’ve imagined it, but I thought I saw his mouth twitch before he responded with a bland, “No. The condition is chronic.”
My hands froze while my jaw unhinged. “D-did you make a joke?”
“Explain why you were out there in the first place.” Alex evaded my question and changed subjects so quick I had whiplash.
He made a joke. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. “I had a photoshoot with clients. There’s a nice lake in—”
“Spare me the details. I don’t care.”
A low growl slipped from my throat. “Why are you here? Didn’t figure you for the chauffeur type.”
“I was in the area, and you’re Josh’s little sister. If you died, he’d be a bore to hang out with.” Alex pulled up in front of my house. Next door, AKA at Josh’s house, the lights blazed, and I could see people dancing and laughing through the windows.
“Josh has the worst taste in friends,” I bit out. “I don’t know what he sees in you. I hope that stick in your ass punctures a vital organ.” Then, because I’d been raised with manners, I added, “Thank you for the ride.”
I huffed out of the car. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and I smelled damp earth and the hydrangeas clustered in a pot by the front door. I’d shower, change, then catch the last half of Josh’s party. Hopefully, he wouldn’t give me shit for getting stranded or being late because I wasn’t in the mood.
I never stay angry for long, but right then, my blood simmered and I wanted to punch Alex Volkov in the face.
He was so cold and arrogant and…and…him. It was infuriating.
At least I didn’t have to deal with him often. Josh usually hung out with him in the city, and Alex didn’t visit Thayer even though he was an alumnus.
Thank God. If I had to see Alex more than a few times a year, I’d go crazy.
2
Alex
“We should take this somewhere more…private.” The blonde trailed her fingers down my arm, her hazel eyes bright with invitation as she swiped her tongue over her bottom lip. “Or not. Whatever you’re into.”
My lips curved—not enough to classify as a smile, but enough to broadcast my thoughts. You can’t handle what I’m into.
Despite her short, tight dress and suggestive words, she looked like the type who expected sweet nothings and lovemaking in bed.
I didn’t do sweet nothings or lovemaking.
I fucked a certain way, and only a specific type of woman was into that shit. Not hardcore BDSM, but not soft. No kissing, no face-to-face contact. Women agreed, then tried to change it up halfway through, after which I’d stop and show them the door. I have no tolerance for people who can’t keep to a simple agreement.