Page 42 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

“Be careful, son,” he said before we hung up. “Fake or not, that girl’s always gotten under your skin.”

I sighed and looked at my reflection. Sure, she has.

I pulled up outside Deepika’s apartment building in my red Audi R8, because if I had to endure a pool party with cameras and fake smiles, I was at least going to drive something that made me happy.

The building looked worse in daylight, with peeling paint, cracked concrete, and a window AC unit that was held in place by what appeared to be duct tape and prayer.

I need to get her out of here.

I leaned against the car, scrolling through more #Liamika content (I was aware I had a problem.), when Deepika stepped out of the elevator doors.

I stopped mid-scroll.

She was wearing a black dress that should have been illegal in at least twelve states. It hugged every curve, and she had curves for days that made my mouth go dry. Her hair was pinned up in this complicated bun thing with a few curls framing her face, and I couldn’t look away.

Actually, could not. My brain had short-circuited.

“CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, JAMES!”

I jerked my head up. A girl, maybe her friend, was hanging out of the window, grinning at us as if she had won the lottery.

Deepika shook her head, mortified. “Ignore her.”

“USE PROTECTION, KIDS!” she yelled.

I was going to die of embarrassment standing outside a building that probably violated housing codes.

Deepika walked toward me, and I tried to reassemble my brain into something functional. She ran her hand along the car’s hood, appreciating the lines, and I had to physically remind myself that we were in public, and I needed to behave like an adult.

Bet we could do it over the car. I can just bend her over the hood like that night⁠—

Behave.

“Nice car,” she said, and there was genuine appreciation in her voice.

I recovered from the shock of seeing her and said, “You clean up… adequately.”

Her expression shifted immediately, and defensive walls slammed into place. “You look like you’re trying too hard.”

“That’s literally a compliment, and you turned it into⁠—”

“I take it back. You’re still an ass.”

“I was being nice!”

“You called me adequate. That’s not nice, that’s—that’s a participation trophy of compliments.”

She had a point, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

I opened the passenger door for her because my mother had raised me right, even if I was an ass. She slid in, the dress riding up just enough that I had to look away before I did something stupid like stare.

Or spank her and get murdered by her bare hands.

The drive was pure torture, and I wish I had sent a driver for her instead, because sitting so close was making me feel weird.

Her perfume filled the small space. It was jasmine and vanilla, the same scent that had driven me insane at the hotel, the same scent that I tasted on her skin when I⁠—

I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles went white.