“Well, good night,” he mutters, unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for the door handle. “Come by this week. I’ll cook for us.” I nod swiftly. “Okay. Sure.” I’m this close to becoming a statue as I sit there with both hands curled around the steering wheel, my spine straight, my chest feeling stacked with weights. Brant’s shoes crunch along the gravel as he gets out of the car and moves around the rear, stopping at the driver’s side. I see him in my peripheral vision, hesitating, debating his next move. And then he sweeps over to me in a quick blink and leans in through the open window, his
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