Page 431 of Bad Prince
He shuts my door, rounds the hood, and gets in on the driver’s side.
The second the engine turns over, the air between us changes.
Not because anything happens.
Because nothing does.
He doesn’t grab my thigh.
Doesn’t lean over the console and kiss me senseless.
Doesn’t do any of the things I spent an embarrassingly large amount of last night imagining he would.
He just drives.
One hand on the wheel.
Jaw relaxed.
That dangerous stillness in his shoulders again—like all the want is there, banked low, controlled on purpose.
It is making me insane.
We hit the edge of campus and merge onto the road in a wash of gold California morning light.
I angle toward him in my seat.
“You’re very calm for a man who’s making me a fugitive before breakfast. If mu coach finds out?—”
He glances at me, amused.
“I bought you coffee in my head already. That makes this legal.”
I look out the window to hide the smile trying to happen. The drive-through line is short. He orders my usual without asking, which should not feel intimate and absolutely does.
We pull away with paper cups steaming in the center console, and I take a careful sip before the caffeine has time to hit the blood already running too warm in my veins.
I watch the road signs.
I watch the exit.
Then I look at him.
“Tristan?”
“Mm.”
“Why are we driving toward the airport?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Which is answer enough.
I turn fully in my seat.
“The airport?”
He takes a slow sip of coffee, eyes on the road.
