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Before I can respond, the bakery door swings open, and Jake, Finley's boyfriend, pokes his head inside.
“Hey, Scarlett. A guy is waiting for you outside. He looks pretty interesting.”
My brow furrows as I grab my purse and head for the door, Finley's gaze burning into my back.
My gaze sweeps the street, seeking something flashy and expensive—a cherry-red Ferrari or a sleek Lamborghini screaming “rock star.”
That's when I see a classic red Mustang parked at the curb, utterly out of place among the sleek, modern cars lining the street.
There is no blaring music, no bodyguards, and no fanfare.
Jett pushes his aviators up, raking a hand through his messy hair. That smile hits me like a sucker punch--cocky, familiar, and infuriatingly attractive.
It's been years, but my stomach does the same stupid flip.
Jett's older, his edges are sharper, but damn if he isn't hotter than ever. I want to hate how good he looks. Instead, I'm fighting back a grin.
“Jett,” I greet him, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“Hey, Scar.” His smooth voice washes over me, that old nickname rolling off his tongue like no time has passed. “Ready to hit the road?”
I swallow hard, ignoring the fluttering in my stomach as I approach the car.
“Nice ride,” I say, keeping my tone casual as I run a hand over the cherry-polished hood, still warm from the sun.
“I figured you were more Ferrari or Lamborghini these days. Fast and flashy like your–”
I bite my tongue before 'sex life' slips out. Oh hell.
Jett pushes off the car, his lean frame unfolding as he steps closer.
The faint scent of his cologne, slightly musky with hints of citrus, transports me back to high school hallways and stolen moments.
“What can I say?” He flashes that cocky grin I know all too well. “I'm a sucker for the classics.”
“You always were,” I murmur, my gaze trailing over the familiar curves of the Mustang.
That's when recognition clicks, and my eyes widen.
“No freaking way. This the same old bucket you and Danny nearly killed yourselves 'fixing up' before senior year?”
I make air quotes, arching an eyebrow.
Now it's Jett's turn to arch a brow, that infuriatingly smug smile tugging at his lips.
“The very same. Fixed up for real this time.”
There's a gleam of pride in his eyes as he pats the fender.
“This old thing brings back memories,” I say.
“Good memories, I hope.”He flashes a smile.
I can't help but admire the grit and authenticity behind restoring this classic American muscle car from the ground up.
Garish displays of wealth and fame might not impress me, but this? This speaks volumes.
I avert my gaze as Jett hoists my suitcase into the trunk, those toned arms flexing beneath the snug fabric of his vintage tee.
