Page 16 of Blacklist

“If you had to tell me to read one book, what would it be?” I ask.

“Harry Potter.” She’s dead serious.

It’s really too bad she’s such a bitch.

“Read it.” I tap the steering wheel. “Suggest something I haven’t read.”

“Pride and Prejudice,” she says smugly.

“Read it.” This time I smile.

“You have?”

I glare over at her incredulous look. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yeah,” she admits. “You don’t seem the type.”

“What type do I seem?” A siren goes off in my brain. We’re closing in on dangerous territory. Do I really want to know what a girl like her thinks about me? She doesn’t strike me as the type to spare my feelings.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” She crosses her arms over her chest, which draws my attention to her breasts.

Not that my attention has ever really wavered from them. Not entirely. Not with her wearing that dress. It doesn’t matter how she treats me. It doesn’t matter that I’m driving her to a hospital. It doesn’t matter that she’s clearly a spoiled brat. I can’t turn off my awareness of her. In the cramped cabin of the vehicle, it’s probably impossible. Not with the air conditioning blowing her perfume in my face. She smells like magnolia blossoms, freshly peeled oranges, possibilities. Intoxicating. Tempting. It calls to me. I want to taste her. I imagine burying my face between her tits and drinking her in.

“Not the type that reads books,” she continues finally, killing my fantasy.

And that’s what she thinks of me.

“Did you think I got to college because of my looks?” I ask.

“Well, it wasn’t because of your charm.” She shakes her head. She seems to realize she’s offended me, because she quickly adds, “Most guys I know haven’t read anything besides what’s assigned in school. Actually, they don’t read that either.”

“I like books,” I confess.

“Even Jane Austen?” She still doesn’t believe me.

“The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it,” I quote.

“And you memorized it?”

Is it just me or does she sound a bit impressed? “I remember bits that strike me.”

“And that struck you?”

“I can relate to that sentiment.” I’m not about to explain why.

Her mouth hangs open for a minute before she shuts it. She wants to ask why. Maybe she’s scared of my answer.

Now she’s learning.

This is how it should be between us. Shallow and meaningless and utilitarian. I drive her to the hospital. I distract her. We stumble into each other’s circle on occasion. More than that? No way. Adair MacLaine is money. I’m only here because someone like her pays full tuition. I’m the charity case. She’s the debutante. It’s as simple as that.

A green highway sign reads Davidson General. Its arrow points ominously at the off-ramp. I glance over to find Adair staring at it, too. This is the end of small talk and polite conversation. Her eyes shift to the floorboard and linger there.

“I don’t have shoes,” she says quietly.

I hear what she’s really saying. She isn’t ready.

“It’s going to be fine,” I tell her. It’s a lie. What is it about her that makes me want to pretend like life doesn’t suck? Like the world isn’t one big disappointment after another?