Page 70 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

She stopped dead. “What… how⁠—”

“You’re driving it today.”

“Liam, I’m not⁠—”

“No arguments,” I said, tossing her the keys. “Get in.”

She caught them automatically, staring at the car as if it might bite her. “I can’t.”

“Of course, you can.”

“I’m too scared.”

I moved closer. “Why?”

“Because Grandma and Grandpa cherished this car. They loved it. And what if I crash it? Or ruin it? What if I⁠—”

“Deepika,” I said, holding her hand. “They didn’t give you this car to keep it pristine in a garage. They gave it to you to drive and to make your own memories in.”

“But what if I⁠—”

“Even if you crashed it. Even if you dented every panel and scratched the paint and totaled the whole thing.” I squeezed her hand. “It would mean something because you would have lived in it, used it, and made it yours. That’s what they would have wanted.”

Her golden-brown eyes went glassy, and I squeezed her hand.

“Come on.” I opened the driver’s door for her. “Let’s make some memories.”

We drove through the winding streets of LA with the top down, the engine’s low growl competing with Britney Spears blasting from the stereo at a volume that was probably illegal.

The air was a mix of warm Santa Ana winds, the faint tang of exhaust, and the intoxicating, soft scent of Deepika’s jasmine perfume.

Deepika’s long, dark hair whipped around her face in a silken frenzy, her cheeks were flushed a delicious, deep rose, and she was belt-out-loud singing every single lyric. She looked so vibrant, so completely unburdened, that I couldn't look away.

The late afternoon sun caught the gold of her skin and the spark in her dark eyes, and my chest felt tight. Partly from the speed, but mostly from the sight of her.

I’m in so much trouble.

“Eyes on the road, Fish Boy!” she shouted over the bridge of ‘Toxic,’ flashing me a grin that made my heart stutter.

“I’m not the one driving, Sharma! I’m just admiring the scenery.”

“The scenery is to your left, Fish Boy!” She spared a split second to glance at me, her eyes raking over my face before she focused back on the asphalt. “You’re the designated passenger princess today. Your job is to look pretty and stop staring at the driver like you’re trying to peel my clothes off with your eyes. It’s distracting.”

I leaned back into the sun-warmed leather seat, the vibrations of the car humming right through my spine and settling low in my gut. I let my gaze linger on the way her grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles elegant and brown against the black leather.

“It’s not a distraction, darling, it’s called moral support,” I said, letting a lazy, suggestive wink pull at the corner of my mouth. “Every driver needs a fan club. I just happen to be the president of yours today.”

She snorted, a gorgeous, unrefined sound that made me want to pull her across the center console right then and there.

Instead of arguing, she just reached over, her fingers brushing my arm sending a jolt of heat straight to my cock and cranked the music even louder, her laughter lost in the wind as we sped toward the coast.

After an hour of aimless driving, I directed her toward my gym.

She frowned as we pulled into the parking lot. “What are we doing here? Am I dropping you off for practice?”

“No, my darling dear.” I unbuckled. “I canceled everything today for you.”

I hopped out and opened her door.