Finally, he broached our destination. “What awaits you on the coast?”
Probably a homeless shelter, followed by a frantic search for a waitressing gig. But I chose not to say those bits. Let him think me a casual, come-what-may sort of girl.
Instead, I told him, “It’s what doesn’t await me.” Namely, a drunk dad, an evil stepmother, and another semester of being a social outcast at my high school.
My shoulders slumped the way they did every time I thought of Christmas, and deliberately I pulled them back, lifting my chin for good measure. “You try living in the boonies outside Orlando. It sucks. It’s hot. The rest of the state has all kinds of water and waves, and what do we get?”
He merely raised a brow.
“Gators, that’s what.”
“A hunter like any other.” He shrugged, not seeming very impressed. He slipped the car into fifth, and it hummed like a tenor warming up at the Met. “This is what has you so outraged?”
I considered the nature of my outrage, and defaulted to my dear, sweet hometown.
“Come on. The place is called Christmas.” If I’d had sleeves, I’d have rolled them up—I could do my Florida rant in my sleep. “Check out some Christmas fun facts. We’re known for two things. We get lots of mail for Santa—I mean, duh. And we’ve got the largest alligator in the world. Name’s Swampy, he’s two hundred feet long, and there’s a gift shop in his belly where you can buy crap like alligator meat. I tell you,” I said, in my best fly-girl voice, “Santa ain’t been home to Christmas since God knows when.”
He chuckled, and the sound made my belly vibrate in a crazy way. “Indeed?”
Who said indeed anymore? “Yeah, indeed.”
“Annelise?”
“People call me Drew.”
“So I gathered.” He cut me a look over the tops of his designer shades. “Annelise?”
The way his accent rolled out my given name brought the phrase death knell to mind. My chest was practically sore from all the heart thumping going on. “Yes?”
“You don’t need to adopt that . . . attitude. It’s unimaginative, and it’s below you. You’re capable of more.”
His candor threw me. “Not easily impressed, I take it?”
“You impress me. Just not the act.”
The act. He was right, actually. Call it my act; call it my armor. I called it coping. The only trouble was, I didn’t know anymore if I could let my real self shine through. What would I even sound like? Who would I be?
I watched as he downshifted. The car whined in low gear. He quickly raked his dark hair from his brow and then popped the car back into third. His arm flexed with the movement, and each glimpse of his tattoo transfixed me.
I hadn’t known guys like this even existed.
“Wait.” I noticed he’d turned off onto a weird one-lane road. Alarm instantly cleared the dreamy thoughts from my head. Just my luck—the guy really was a serial killer. “Where are you taking me?”
“I’m thinking perhaps you’d rather travel to the coast by plane.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“A plane?” My voice was shrill with disbelief. Ronan had driven us to a private airport, where he’d parked in driven us to a private airport, where he’d parked in front of an airplane. A sleek, shiny, private jet–looking thing. I craned my neck, looking out the window at a dingy, grayish brown airstrip. Small puddles spoke of a recent Florida downpour, and moisture blackened fissures along the pavement, making it look like crackle pottery.
The concerns that’d nagged me earlier slammed full force to the front of my mind. Hopping in a sports car with a mysterious fellow student was one thing, but private jets were a whole other reality. Uncertainty brought back my sarcasm full force. “Who are you, John Travolta?”
“John Travolta?” He pulled off his sunglasses to study me. There were flecks of gold in his green eyes.
“You know, the movie star. He’s got all those planes. I just mean . . . who are you to own a jet like that?” And what makes you think I’m getting in it?
“It’s not my jet, precisely.” He crooked his mouth into a half smile.
I had to look away, back to the plane. I refused to let him distract me. The feel of this strong, attractive, huskily accented guy sitting so close was a lot to bear, but not so much that I’d get on a plane with him. Surviving my father had honed my instincts. It didn’t take a sage to know that smart girls don’t fly off with strange men.