Head Over Feels

“Where to?”

“My place.” I raise my brows. It’s not that I haven’t been invited before, but it’s never been just me—alone. I’ve only been there with the group. Rad and I are friends, of course. I even might have wanted to kiss him a time or ten over the years—how could I not? I’m a human, after all, and Rad is, well, Rad. He doesn’t look at me as more than a friend. And that’s probably for the best.

He’s just always been Manhattan elite while I’m more grounded in Brooklyn.

“A bit forward, don’t ya think, Mr. Wellington?”

“You asked.” He smirks, staring through the windshield. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I’m not sure, but I think I catch the smallest of grimaces before he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. He leans over and pops the door open. “Hop in.”

I look down the street toward my apartment. It’s five blocks, an easy walk, but skipping another night of packing sounds tempting. I know better, though. It wouldn’t be responsible to leave it until the last minute. “I really should go home.”

“Come on. I’ll treat you to tacos and margaritas.”

He makes it so hard to say no when I really should go home and pack. “You sure know how to tempt a girl.”

He gives me a sideways glance and chuckles. “So you say quite often lately.”

“I’ve been too hard on you. I’m sorry. It’s all in fun.”

“I know, Tealey. Don’t worry about it.”

I open the door wider and slip onto the buttery leather passenger seat. After buckling in, I lean back, angling his way. “I’m starting to think the life of one of your ‘perks’ might not be so bad.”

With our eyes fixed on each other, his smile falters. “Promise me you’ll never settle for being a perk when you can be someone else’s everything.”

My heart starts throbbing, and my breath stills in my throat. He doesn’t move except two blinks while waiting for me to answer a question he didn’t ask. “All right.”

He nods, appearing satisfied, and pulls into the flow of traffic. “Tacos?”

“Tacos.” Running the tips of my fingers across the leather coating the dash, I say, “I think this is the most expensive car I’ve ever ridden in.”

“I’ve been in pricier, but this car is my favorite,” he replies with such confidence, though not a hint of arrogance is detected. “There’s an envelope in the back. It’s the retaining contract. No fees as promised.”

I look behind his seat to see the envelope and take it, tucking it inside my tote. “Thank you. I know I said it before, but I really do appreciate you helping her and me.”

“I want to help.”

Though traffic slows, the city begins to tower as we cross the bridge. “Is the contract why you came to see me?”

“Actually, I wanted to spend some time with you. We don’t get many opportunities.” He glances at me. “Just the two of us.”

Being under the steel and concrete bridge with the sun blocked from most angles, I’m reminded how much I hate bridges. I grip the side of the seat with one hand and the belt across my body with the other. “On purpose.”

“You don’t spend time with me on purpose?”

I gulp down the fear threatening to creep up my throat and try to hold my tone steady. “No, I thought that’s how you wanted it.”

His eyes volley between the road and me, a little line digging deeper between his eyes. “Why do you think that?”

Shrugging, I shake my head. “I don’t know. I guess because you never asked.”

“Touché,” he replies as confusion cinches his brows even closer.

Somehow, I find comfort in staring at him versus the brown cage surrounding the vehicle. “Actually, I asked once.” I hate the shame mincing my words. “Junior year. I asked you to take me to a dance.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his attention on the bumper-to-bumper cars ahead, and then he says, “I don’t remember that.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Sure, it does. Hey. Are you okay?”

“Fine.” I try to shake off the sinking feeling. “I don’t like bridges. I don’t even know why. Must be a fear from a past life or something. Who knows?” I roll my eyes because I sound ridiculous.

Reaching over, he covers my hand gripping the seat with his. The warmth brings peace to my racing heart as I keep my eyes trained on the veins of his hand. He asks, “What dance was it?”

I drag my gaze to his. “It was a last-minute ask, and you were busy.”

He’s steady in his voice and strength with his hand gently wrapped around mine to keep it from shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Really. I didn’t even remember until just now. It was just a sock hop to raise money for a local shelter. A dance-all-night kind of thing. The social work department hosts one every year. I went to others.”