Badly Behaved

My mouth opens and I’m about to ask what he’s talking about, but I catch myself quickly.

Right, my car was ‘stolen’ from my garage in the middle of the night.

Thank god I remembered to delete the Ring surveillance footage before I called my mom.

Am I supposed to say yes and come off as a helpless schoolgirl?

Am I supposed to say no and allow his wheels to spin?

Letting him draw his own conclusion sounds better, so I give a tight smile and lift a single shoulder as I bring my glass to my mouth again.

“You know...” He trails.

I know that tone.

It’s the one all men use, leading and low, and I don’t want to look, but I have to.

Sure enough, his eyes are hooded and focused on my wrists, his light graze following.

“You’re eighteen soon.” He looks to me. “We don’t have to wait until next summer and rush when it gets here. We can... swim together now, set our own pace, so we’re perfectly ready for the rest when it comes.”

No.

Hell no.

I don’t want to swim.

Swimming is slow and personal.

I want to crash face-first into my wedding, not plan it.

I don’t even want to pick out the dress.

“I think a quick course will be exciting,” I say instead.

Thankfully, he simply grins, nodding lightly. “I have no doubt it will be.”

Together, we go back to eating our sushi, and when I leave, his focus falls to my car.

Creases form along his forehead and he rubs his lips together. “This is your new car.”

I smile at the candy red paint, running my fingers along the glossy hood, up and over the windshield. I lift the top down so the crisp leather can get acquainted with the sun.

“What do you think?”

“When did you buy this?” he asks, rather than answering.

I turn to face him again. “Yesterday, when I left here actually.”

His eyes still on the vehicle, he gives a slow nod, but when he looks up at me, he smiles. “I should get back to work. You’ll make it home okay?”

“I will.” Eventually. I open the door, sticking one heel in as I look over at him. “See you next Sunday.”

The grin on his face answers yes, but the look in his eye says something different.

Only I’m not sure what it is.

Fifteen minutes before the lunch bell is set to ring, my teacher instructs me to grab my things, and sends me to the office with a pink slip in hand.

I figure it’s the boys being silly, but as I round the hall, my foot nearly freezes in the air at the sight in front of me.

Sandy blond hair, perfectly parted, trimmed and tame. A devilish black suit and skillful chuckle.

What the—

I’m cut from my own thought as he spins, spotting me in the doorway.

I smile, maybe too wide, but Anthony smiles back.

“Hi.”

“Hi. I thought I would surprise you.”

“I... mission accomplished.” Smile.

He reaches back, grabbing his jacket from the edge of the counter, and nods at the administrative assistant, who excuses herself.

“I owe you a meal on the yacht. It’s still off-campus lunch like it was when I was here, right?”

The curl of my lip takes a little less effort this time. “I don’t know, that was a really long time ago.”

He chuckles, slipping closer. As he does, his eyes lower and they take a long time to come back up.

Yeah, the girl he’s looking at isn’t the same one who visits him on Sundays.

My skirt doesn’t reach just above the knee, and I’m not wearing nylons or blazer or a crew cut top.

My heels are dipped in rose gold glitter, my top a draped crop cami and my skirt leather. My hair isn’t curled but silk straight and parted down the middle. The large hoops in my ears match my shoes and my eye makeup is heavy.

Basically, I look like a basketball wife, a far cry from the duchess he signed on for.

But six days of the week still belong to me, and Tuesday is one of them. I’m allowed and he knows it.

And I think he likes it.

Thank god!

A teasing grin covers his face, and he lets out a low whistle, his eyes coming back to mine. “You’re exquisite, Miss Falino.”

I link my arm in his when he offers it, allowing him to steer us toward the exit. “And you’re far from average, Mr. Blanca.”

He chuckles, leading us toward his driver, who is parked at the curb’s edge.

We slip inside and Anthony has a carafe of water waiting.

I tilt my head, accepting a glass as he passes it over. “Since we’re eating on the yacht, can we stop at my car? I have a coat in the back.”

He nods, glancing toward the driver’s window, who must have heard perfectly, and already knows which vehicle is mine, coming up behind it in the senior parking lot without direction.