“Just text me the address where you left the car. I’ll have it handled, and the car will be returned to you good as new.”
“Thanks, Sean. You’re a good guy,” I tell him because he needs to hear it.
“You know better than that.” His answer is predictable. And wrong.
He has more important things to deal with than an old friend with car problems, yet he agrees to help. And he refuses to discuss money and my paying him back. That’s my definition of a good guy. At the very least, he’s good to me. I hope Avery is worthy of him. He needs someone who cares in his life.
“You need a ride home? A car in the meantime?” he asks.
“Nope. I made other arrangements,” I fib because I don’t want to put him out any more than I already have. “Thanks again.” I hang up before he can ask me specific questions about how I plan on getting to and from work, dorm, and classes. This is my chance to learn how to handle the bus and the subway.
From here, it’s a fifteen-block walk to the dorm, and I exit the brownstone. Robin left me shorts and a tank top and a pair of sneakers to wear, which I appreciate. I don’t have too many close friends. Growing up, I was isolated, thanks to my parents’ inability to see the good in anyone except people they chose for their money or connections.
I met Robin when I started at the university, and we clicked immediately. She doesn’t understand my rich people problems, as she calls them, but she gets family dysfunction, and as a result, she gets me.
I step outside and the fresh air surrounds me. After a not-so-decent night’s sleep on the sofa, I can almost believe the surreal parts of last night never happened. Until I lay eyes on Zach Anders.
He leans against the brownstone railing. The morning sun hits his hair, making the blond strands even more noticeable and his green eyes even more striking. His arms are folded over his broad chest. He’s wearing a light blue tee shirt that molds to his toned body, and I am sure if I take his right hand in mine, his knuckles will be bruised and raw.
I shake my head, accepting that everything I remember about last night really occurred. No dream, no nightmare, or combination thereof.
“Hey, Princess,” he says. “Can I give you a lift?” His gaze travels over me in blatant appraisal.
I feel his stare on my bare legs and thighs, on my tingling breasts beneath my top. Even the hair on my arms prickles and lifts in awareness.
I swallow hard. “I was planning to walk.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Now you don’t have to.” He points to his truck. In the light of day, I see it’s black and definitely fits his macho image.
“Why are you here?” I ask, remaining two steps above him, safe from his magnetic pull. For now.
“Because I left you stranded here and figured you’d need a ride.”
I blow out a breath and start down the steps, walking past him. “I’m good, but thanks.”
He walks with me, matching his long stride to mine. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m going back to my dorm.”
He clears his throat. “How old are you, anyway? Say you’re legal or I might have to throw myself in front of a taxi.”
I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “Twenty-two.”
He grins. “Perfect. Want to get breakfast?”
He’s in a good mood this morning, no signs of last night’s trauma lingering for him. I, on the other hand, had flashbacks all night.
“Why?” I ask, stopping on the sidewalk.
His eyes crinkle in amusement. “Because I’m hungry.”
“No, why are you here wanting to spend time with me?”
“Is it so hard to believe I’m interested in you?” he asks.
When those words come from his perfect mouth, I realize there’s no way to answer without insulting myself. I do it anyway. “Yes, it is.”
He frowns. A seriously angry expression on that handsome face. “Who gave you the idea you don’t make one hell of an impression?” he asks, clasping my hand in his.