Page 40 of No Judgements

Nor did I care about the hard, stinging rain that quickly soaked my T-shirt and shorts, or the leaves that were being flung about by the wind and slapped against my legs, arms, and face. All I cared about was not allowing Drew Hartwell to do anything nice for me, because then I’d owe him something.

“Wait,” I cried, rushing up to him as he expertly rolled my scooter off its kickstand. “You don’t have to do this. I was only kidding. I’m happy to ride—”

His classy clear plastic rain poncho had a hood, but the wind was so strong it had blown it back, so his dark hair was already plastered to his head. “Get back in the truck.”

“But I—”

Another flash of lightning, followed by another crash of thunder, this one much louder than the last. I felt it reverberate in my chest. Being outside in this weather was probably not a good idea.

Riding a scooter in it was probably an even worse one.

“Get back in the truck,” he roared.

I wouldn’t, however. I hurriedly opened the back of the truck and rearranged the oddities I found there so my scooter would fit—the fishing coolers, toolboxes, shrimp boots, and other assorted paraphernalia of Drew Hartwell’s life, including, for some reason, several folding lawn chairs and, of course, the chain saw.

Then I helped him lift the bike into the bed of the truck, even though he kept roaring at me to stop, that he could handle it.

But I knew how much that thing weighed. Even though it was a small scooter—barely street legal in some states at 50cc, and so not requiring a motorcycle license to drive—it took both our efforts to haul it onto the truck.

He was seething by the time we both climbed damply back into our seats.

“I thought I told you to stay in the truck,” he said.

“Well, I thought I told you that I could handle it on my own.”

“You were going to try to ride that thing, in this?” He gestured at the rain that was now pummeling the windshield in sheets. We could barely see three feet in front of us. The high winds were sending leaves, including whole branches, sailing across the street. I thought I saw someof the frangipani blossoms sail by, even though we were parked beyond the high walls that surrounded the courtyard to my apartment building.

“I would have been fine,” I insisted, “if you’d have let me grab my rain gear. I’ve ridden in worse weather than this.”

This was a lie. I’d never seen weather this bad.

And I hated riding in the rain on my scooter. I didn’t like how slick the yellow lines of the road felt under my wheels. I was no road warrior.

Drew shook his head. He’d evidently seen through my lie. “Now do you see why I said to always bring your raincoat?”

“Well, you could have loaned me yours, and then all of this would have been avoided. I’d be back at your aunt’s by now, and you’d be on your way back to your beach house to fulfill your death wish.”

He gave me a sour look as I struggled to buckle my seat belt.

“Look,” he said. “You know how you feel about those cloud paintings of yours? That’s how I feel about my house. I can’t just leave it. I’d like to, but I can’t. I’ve worked too hard on it, and I love it.”

I didn’t feel like it would be a good idea to remind him that my paintings were one of the last things I’d thought to pack. He seemed to have a slightly idealized notion of me as an artist.

I would have liked to live up to this vision, but I knew the truth: I’d been more worried about Gary than I had about my art.

Instead of replying, I fumbled once again with the seat belt. “Is this thing broken, or what?” I mumbled.

Looking irritated, he leaned over to help. “It’s not broken. You just have to—”

The second his fingers brushed mine, I felt the same jolt shoot through me that I’d felt the night before, when his fingers had closed over mine on the bicycle handle.

Only this time, there was no bike between us, and our mouths were just inches apart. I could feel the heat coming off his body through his damp clothes, heard his breath quicken as our hands touched, and when I looked up, I could see that his gaze was on mine.

There was no question: whatever strange chemical attraction I felt was going on between us, he felt it, too.

It made absolutely no sense. But it also seemed 100 percent right to close the slight distance between our lips by lifting my head and pressing my mouth to his.

The second our lips met, it was like lightning striking all over again. Only this time the lightning was inside the truck—or more specifically, my shorts. I wasn’t sure what I’d been doing with my life instead of kissing Drew Hartwell. It had definitely been time wasted. This,thiswas what I’d been meant to be doing, because it was making every nerve ending, every fiber in my body feel alive. My toes were curling inside my sneakers. I wanted to straddle him right there behind the wheel.