fine without mastering French IV.”
I swallowed, needing a giant glass of hydrating water. I definitely could not drop the class—not as a senior. If I didn’t take it this semester, I’d just be back in the same place come January. “Actually, I’m an international business major.” I blew a soft breath out of lightly parted lips. “So, I won’t be ‘just fine’ not mastering French IV.”
He winced in sympathy. “Well, then, I would suggest some caffeine and a study partner. I know a few tutors I can recommend, but they don’t come cheap.” He offered me a small smile, and it deepened the wrinkles around his light eyes. “It’ll be a tough semester for you, but if you plan on working in international business, then French is a necessity, isn’t it?”
I nodded, tilting my chin and giving the best faux confidence I could muster. Which, admittedly, was probably not all that convincing. “Yes, sir. I can catch up. I always do.”
His smile was warm as it widened and spread over his whole face. He pushed to his feet as well, and gestured for the door. “I hope so.”
I slipped out to find Tate leaning against the wall right outside in the hallway. I nearly ran into him and quickly dodged his elbow, which stuck out into the doorway. “Jeez,” I said, mostly to myself.
He kicked off the wall, and I sped up to avoid a conversation with him. Or tried to. But he was faster, and soon his steps fell into rhythm beside me. “What was that about?”
“None of your business.”
“Whoa.” He put both hands up, surrender style, and jumped ahead of me to open the door. “I was just asking. Damn.”
I sighed, walking faster into the parking lot, closing my eyes briefly against the warmth of the sun hitting my skin. Students milled about after class, hanging out on the benches and near the coffee carts. “I know. Sorry,” I added in a mumble. Why did he have to be so nice? And yet, he was an asshole. Was there such a thing as a nice asshole? Digging my keys out of the front pouch of my bag, an idea crept into my brain. Tate had offered me his help at the party. He spoke French fluently. What if he tutored me until I caught up to the rest of the class? He still stood next to me as though waiting—waiting for me to ask for the help we both knew I needed.
I gulped, and he plucked the car keys from my hand, looking at the set. “No shit,” he gushed, looking around the lot and taking off toward my mom’s cherry red MG Midget. I still couldn’t call it mine…for as long as I owned the car, it would be my mom’s. “This ride is yours?” He circled my car, eyes wide. “I was wondering whose Cherry Pie this was.”
My smile deepened, and though tired, it was genuine. “Yep. She’s beautiful, but breaks down every time the wind changes direction.”
“Aw, come on. It must be worth it. Damn, it’s in great condition, too. Restored?”
I shook my head. “No…my mom just took really good care of her before giving her to me.”
He smiled and put his hands in his pockets. “You talk like it’s a person.”
“It might as well be. She was always part of the family.” My only family now, I thought as my eyes traveled her sleek lines. Unless I counted Harrison. But he wasn’t blood. And as much as I loved the guy, he’d never take the place of my mom. That lump in my throat threatened to take up residence permanently, and I swallowed it down before it grew roots.
He put the key in the door and hopped into the passenger side. “Take me for a ride.” His eyes glistened with intent. Oh, hell. I’ll take you for a ride, all right.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Don’t you have class?”
He didn’t even look at his watch, but leaned over, sliding the key into the ignition. “Not until twelve.” Then, with a twitch of his head, gestured for me to enter. “You?”
I hopped in the car, pointedly waiting for him to get out. “Twelve thirty.”
“Great, you can give me a ride home.” His grin split wider.
There was no reason to not give him a ride home. How long would the drive take? Five minutes? I could manage being in the car with him that long. I rolled my eyes, cranking the car to life.