Page 73 of Shut Up and Drive

I immediately drop my hair and let it fall back down my back.

“I don’t do that.”

Thane leans on the counter. “Yes you do. Without fail. Every time. The glasses go on, your hair goes up.”

He’s right. Idodo that. I mentally facepalm and put my hair tie back on my wrist. I plant myself firmly in place. “No, I don’t.”

“Don’t resist it. It’s your thing. And honestly, it’s hot as hell.” He leans in close to me and the smell of coconut sunscreen lingers.

“Makes me want to whisper around you,” he says, lowering his voice.

I glare at him, then shove my black-rimmed glasses on my face with gusto to prove some kind of point, though I can’t for the life of me think of what that is. The muscle-memory urge to then pull up my hair is so automatic I have to fight with every fiber of my being not to do it. My hands twitch.

“Go on. You know you want to. I can see your jaw clenching.”

“No, it’s not,” I say through gritted teeth.

He laughs and preps his toothbrush.

“Whatever you say,” he says, his cocky, foamy smile flashing at me.

I fume as I prep my own toothbrush and brush angrily in silence. He holds my gaze and grins until it’s time to rinse, making the whole situation worse.

As he turns to leave, he whispers in my ear, “Madam Librarian.”

It sends goosebumps all down my side, and it’s all I can do not to deck him and kiss him at the same time.

I rinse my mouth, surrender to habit, and pull my hair up. I leave the bathroom in a huff.

I hate when Thane is right.

Chapter 29

MAYBE HE HAS GROWN UP

Sera

Iwake to the sound of Bradley yelling obscenities from across the room. I throw my blankets off and skip most of the ladder rungs on my way out of bed.

“What is going on?” I hiss, searching the nightstand for my glasses.

“My face is on fire!” he barks.

“Stop swearing! There are children in here!” I chastise.

I rush across the room, tripping over someone’s suitcase in the process. I yank open the blackout blinds, and the first golden ray of sunshine floods the room. Groans from the other bunk beds sound off.

“Dude, Sera.Notcool,” Thane’s ten-year-old nephew grumbles, and pulls his blanket over his head.

“Sorry!” I whisper, lowering the blinds again and dragging Bradley into the bathroom.

I gasp when I flip on the light. Bradley’s face iscoveredin a bright red, splotchyrash.

“Oh my gosh! What happened?”

Bradley shoves past me and leans close to the mirror to examine his face. “I have no idea!” he snaps. He starts rummaging through the drawers and cabinets, slamming each one when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

“Can I help you find something?” I ask as calmly as I can.