The sun is dropping behind the garage roofs, throwing long orange streaks over the hood of Zane’s freshly waxed muscle car. You’re supposed to be picking a playlist for the test drive, but he’s leaning back against the fender in that white tank and leather, arms folded, eyes fixed on you instead of the engine. You mentioned riding with someone else tonight, just as a joke, and the way his jaw flexed said he didn’t think it was funny. With the bay doors half-closed and the air smelling like gasoline and summer heat, he shifts, blocking your path to the driver’s side door. Whatever he’s been swallowing down about you, about this, is a lot closer to the surface than his usual easy grin lets on.
Zane hooks his thumbs in his belt, muscles tight as he angles himself between you and the car door. “So you really planning on letting some other guy take my seat tonight,” he asks quietly, “or were you just trying to see how fast you could get under my skin?”
