Page 74 of Shut Up and Drive

“Let me see, Serafina. I have a giant rash all over my face, and it’s itching like crazy! It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that I need some hydrocortisone cream!”

I freeze. My insides tense up. I jump when he slams another cabinet door. I brace for his explosion. The bathroom shrinks as his anger grows, and I’m trapped.

“What are you waiting for? Go look for some!” he demands.

The bathroom door to the bunk room flies open, and Thane pulls me backward. He tucks me behind his back and squares his shoulders.

“Don’t ever talk to Sera like that again,” he snarls.

“Or what?” Bradley challenges, stepping into Thane’s space.

Instead of retreating, Thane steps forward. They’re almost chest to chest, and Thane’s fists curl up.

“Please don’t do this,” I beg from behind Thane.

He reaches back and squeezes one of my hands. “It’s okay, Fina. I’ve got this,” he says to me over his shoulder.

That’s when Bradley sucker-punches Thane right in the face. Thane barely winces, grabs Bradley by the shirt, and pushes him against the wall. He cocks back his fist and is about to rearrange Bradley’s face when Thane’s five-year-old niece appears inthe doorway.

“Stop!” I yell. “Both of you!”

“I have to go potty,” she says softly.

Thane releases Bradley from his grip and steps backward, scooping her into his arms. “Hey, Pumpkin. Sorry we woke you up. Let me take you to the bathroom down the hallway by your mom and dad’s room, okay?”

He gives Bradley a glare that could stop bird poop mid-air and says low in my ear, “Go get Bash,” before he disappears down the hall.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I can’t catch my breath.

“Wow,” is all I can say to Bradley before I leave him alone with his stupidity to shower.

Thane disappearedwith Bash down the trail about an hour ago, and there’s no way after that scuffle that I can relax, so I do what I do best: I rage-bake.

Even after baking three dozen muffins I’m still full of knots inside, so I bust out the big guns. Rolling out croissant dough is both hard work and meticulous, so my hands and mind are nice and busy while I mull over what to do with Bradley. I know I should’ve pulled my mom aside and explained to her our situation, but seeing Thane get jealous fed my starving ego. I certainly shouldn’t have let things get this out of hand, and now Thane is hurt because of me. This guilt adds more weight to the lead ball in my gut, and I don’t realize how anxious I am until my dough isoverworked and warm. I sigh, cover the rolled-out dough in cellophane, and toss it in the refrigerator. I slip into the pantry and collapse onto a stool in the dark.

The back door slides open, and I freeze. I keep my breaths shallow and try with every fiber of my being not to sniffle.

“Fina?” I hear Thane’s voice through the wall.

I sit silently and wait for him to walk away.

“Pidge, I know you’re in here. There’s flour all over the counter,” he says, then comes through the pantry door and flicks on the light, “and you never leave a mess like this behind.”

I look up at him with puffy eyes and force a smile that fools no one. He kneels on the floor in front of me and lifts my chin. My gaze lifts to the bruise forming on his cheek, and I can’t make eye contact with him.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you hiding in here?” he asks.

“I would ask you if you remember Bradley’s horrible behavior this morning, but you have the black eye to prove it,” I respond with a sniff and wipe my eyes with the hem of my apron. “And it’s all because of me.”

“What, this ol’ thing?” He touches the swollen skin and chuckles. “It’s nothing, really. It’s not the first time I’ve taken a punch for you, and both times were worth it.”

His sincere brown eyes burrow into me and I focus on that Cupid’s bow scar. My hand instinctively raises before my logic catches up, and I brush it with my fingertips. He closes his eyes and leans into my hand in response, and the hum that escapes his throat at my touch throws gasoline on embers I can’t seem to extinguish. I cup his jaw with myother hand and gently stroke the bruise forming with my thumb. My throat tightens around the regret growing inside me like an intrusive vine.

“I’m sorry,” I can barely whisper.

He’s silent for a few seconds, then whispers in return, “I’m not.”

I’m unsure of who moved closer first, but without thinking, I press my lips to his black eye, then the scar from the accident on his forehead. I kiss them both slowly, as if I can erase the pain they caused him. My fingertips caress his stubbly jawline, and his whole body gravitates toward me. His hands rest on the stool next to my hips as he allows me to disarm him, kiss by wispy kiss. His familiar, woodsy scent intoxicates me and my thoughts swirl with our past, our present, and maybe,possibly—our future.