Page 30 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“How?”

“Because I’m rich.”

I laugh, then press my hand to my mouth to stop it. The last thing I want to do is encourage him.

Carrson guns the engine, and the car shoots into traffic. He swings into the passing lane and accelerates around a line of slower vehicles. At the back is a beat-up truck with paint peeling from the hood and a bumper sticker that reads Bee Happy beside a smiling cartoon bee.

I decide to follow its advice.

Carrson clears the truck and presses harder on the gas. The engine thunders through the cabin.

“Why is it so loud?” I ask, pressing a hand over one ear.

“So people know to expect me,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the sound.

We rush down the main street, heading toward the highway. Every head swivels to watch us go.

“I think it’s working,” I yell back.

Once we hit the freeway, some of the road noise dies down so I don’t have to yell to be heard.

“Do you speak a foreign language?” I ask, curious now that I’ve thought of it.

“A couple. My father used to take me with him on work trips all over the world. He’d make me go to all the boring meetings and listen to them talk.” Carrson drives with one hand casually draped over the wheel, which for some reason I find unbelievably sexy. “I know Spanish, German, Italian, and Mandarin, although my accent isn’t great.” He glances over, and his forehead creases. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to climb across the center console and straddle me.”

Heat rushes up my neck and onto my cheeks. “What? I can’t help it,” I mumble. “Smart guys are hot.”

He grins, delighted. “So it’s not the car, or my leadership skills, or my good looks? It’s the languages that turn you on?”

I hide my face in my hands so he can’t see how it flames.

That only makes him laugh, the sound coming from his belly.

“Wǒ ài shàng nǐ le, kěshì bù zhīdào gāi zěnme gàosù nǐ.”

The words are so soft I almost lose them to the hum of the tires against the pavement.

I lower my hands and look at him. “Was that Mandarin?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing important,” he says, far too smug for that to be the truth, but there’s something in his expression that keeps me from teasing him about it. A hint of nerves in the way he keeps glancing over at me and then back to the road. Carrson Ashford can lie with his whole face when he wants to, but whatever he just said matters enough that he’s afraid I might somehow understand it.

“My dad speaks Italian too,” I say, letting him keep the secret for now. “That’s where he met my mom. In Florence, even though he’s American. He was living there, and she was studying abroad in college.”

“Florence?”

“According to my mom, it was love at first sight.”

“According to your dad?”

“Also love at first sight, but he told the story with more complaining.” I smile softly, remembering all the times my parents talked about it. “My dad swore he’d never go back to the United States, but once he met my mom he was a goner.”