Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

“But you…skipped classes?”

He shrugged. “I’d rather stay here with you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t even know how to feel about that. It seemed…sweet.

He’s not really sweet. Remember what he wants from you. Don’t get taken in now. You know what happened in that movie because of a pretty face.

“Right. I haven’t forgotten why I’m here,” I said, putting my seat belt on. “I’m supposed to drive

you. I don’t want you to come back later and say I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain.”

When I looked at him again, the warmth in his eyes was gone. “Is it just me, or are you like this with everyone?”

Was he upset? “What do you mean?”

“What does it take for you to accept kindness? Or do you just really not trust me?” His voice had turned cold. “Is that it?”

Kindness? Had it been kindness he was bestowing upon me all this time? I must have missed the damn memo.

“Well, you didn’t really do anything to earn it, did you?”

Suddenly, he moved away as far as he could from me in the confined space of the car, and it dawned on me how close we were leaning toward each other. In defense, I mirrored his actions and crossed my arms in front of me.

“Seat belt,” he growled.

I already have it on, Mr. Grouch. “You should be in the CIA. Your observational skills are so on point.”

I looked outside my window, watching the rain. It was only drizzling now, but the dreary sky promised more of it.

“You were already late this morning,” he said. “Is that what you meant by holding up your end?”

His temper was nasty, but so was mine. I faced him.

“Why don’t you kiss my fine, grade-A ass? You’re not worth an explanation. Start the damn car and let’s go.”

“Know what?” he said, his voice had turned low. Dangerous. “Why don’t you drive?”

“Why don’t I?” I shot back.

Kindness? This is why I don’t accept your kindness, you stupid, muscular, pig-headed baboon.

His black temper pushed him out of the car, and he slammed the door closed. And while he walked around the front to the passenger side, I locked the door.

In a frenzy of movements, I unbuckled my seat belt, leaped to the driver’s seat. Adjusted it so my legs reached the pedals, put the gear in reverse. I waited until he was about to reach for the door. Then I stepped on the gas and reversed.

Just a couple of feet away. Just enough to send him a message that he couldn’t intimidate me. I would match his temper with mine.

His glower could have burned villages. I gave him a smile.

The rain was slowly soaking his black hair. It curled under his sharp jaw, over his forehead, and dripped rain on his face.

We stared at each other for a few seconds—two fighters unwilling to budge. I could feel my skin prickle with electricity at his challenging stare, at the silent invitation in it.

And then he shook his head. He looked down and bit his knuckles, his shoulders shaking. Was he laughing at me?

Talk about hot and cold.

I blew out a breath. He swaggered the few feet to my car and opened the door. I heard the thump of metal as the lock prevented him from opening it. He rapped his knuckles on the window, leaned down so his face was visible to me.