4

Marianna

There are three universally acknowledged facts about my dynamic with Duane Richter that perfectly illustrate the canyon-sized gap between us.

Fact one: he’s richer than God, which means his place is undoubtedly a sprawling architectural masterpiece that could swallow my entire apartment whole.

Fact two: I spent the better part of my adolescence harboring a suffocating, secret crush on him, filling countless diaries with his name—all of which I’ve since burned to ash. The closest thing to a compliment he’s ever given me was a secondhand remark he allegedly made to Marco in the third grade: Your sister looks cute today.

Fact three: I am currently a soaking wet, tragic disaster of a human being, while he looks like he just stepped off the cover of GQ.

In every conceivable dimension of time and space, I am profoundly outmatched. Going to his apartment wouldn't just be a losing battle; it would be a total, humiliating surrender.

So, naturally, my only viable option is to scream.

"No! I am not going to your place!" I press myself against the passenger door, putting as much distance between us as the leather bucket seat allows. "I'll figure it out! Just pull over. Drop me at a hotel, any hotel."

He doesn't even blink. He smoothly shifts gears, his forearm flexing under the dark fabric of his sleeve, casually invading the center console space between us. "With what money?" His voice is infuriatingly calm. Reasonable. "You don't have your wallet. It was in your luggage, wasn't it?"

"How do you—"

"Your brother mentioned you keep everything in your suitcase when you travel. Says you lose things." A pause. He cuts his eyes toward me, the streetlights illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw. "Apparently, you lose entire suitcases."

My face is on fire. Absolutely burning. "I don't lose things. Things get misplaced. There's a difference."

"Mm." That sound again. The non-word. He leans slightly closer as he checks his passenger-side mirror, bringing that intoxicating, dark woody cologne straight into my airspace. My breath hitches. "So you're saying your wallet is currently misplaced somewhere in the American airline system?"

I hate him. Genuinely, viscerally hate him.

"I have my credit card," I lie, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the visible lace of my bra.

"In your phone case?" His gaze drops to my chest for a fraction of a second—too fast to call it staring, but slow enough that I feel it everywhere.

"...Maybe."

"The phone that's dead." He reaches out and taps the black screen of the phone clutched in my white-knuckled grip. His fingertips brush against mine. A shock of static electricity zips straight up my arm.

Fuck.

"Look," I try one more time, hearing the edge of desperation in my voice and hating it. "I don't want to impose. I'll just—"

"No."

Just: no. Not "I'd rather not" or "I don't think that's a good idea." Just a flat refusal, delivered in that same infuriatingly calm voice.

"You don't get to just decide—"

His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. Not hard. Not bruising. But his palm is hot against my damp skin, his long fingers wrapping entirely around my wrist bone, firm enough to shut me up mid-sentence. He pulls my hand away from my chest, resting my arm on the center console, pinning me in place with nothing but his grip.

"Listen carefully," he says, eyes back on the road, voice still that same level calm that's somehow more unsettling than if he'd yelled. "Your brother asked me to look after you if you showed up. You've showed up. Therefore, I'm looking after you. This is not a negotiation. This is not a discussion. You're coming to my apartment, you're going to shower and change into something that doesn't make you look like a wet t-shirt contestant—" his thumb strokes once, slowly, over my racing pulse, before his eyes flick down to my lap, "—and tomorrow we'll figure out your luggage situation and get you a new phone."

He releases my wrist. Places his hand back on the steering wheel like nothing happened.

Like he didn't just completely derail my brain with that casual touch. My skin burns where his fingers were.

"The underwear doesn't match, by the way," he adds, almost as an afterthought, his voice dropping half an octave. "Black bra, white panties. You should work on your coordination skills."

I make a sound. Not a word. Not even language. Just a strangled noise of pure mortification, my knees pressing tight together.

He saw. He saw.

We drive in silence after that. But it's a different kind of silence now. Heavier. Charged with something I don't want to name and definitely don't want to think about.

Because the truth is—the truth I've spent nine years trying to bury—I don't hate Duane Richter.

I wish I did. Would be so much easier if I did.

Hate would be simple.

The rain hammers against the windshield. The city lights blur into streaks of gold and red and white.

Which probably makes me a masochist. Or just monumentally stupid.

"For the record," I say quietly, staring out the window at the city rushing past, "I really do appreciate this. Even if you're being an asshole about it."

I think I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Get used to it," he says. "You're staying with me until your brother gets back."

I'm so fucked.

Terrible, terrible idea.

Marianna, I think. Try not to burn down your entire life in the first 24 hours.