Everything in me tightens. I force myself to think of the invite, of the possibility Tucker could be a part of the Society, but I can’t make myself care right now. Ethan flashes into my head. I imagine Savannah leading him into a bedroom and find myself giving Tucker a tiny nod.
Our lips touch. I expect it to be soft and sweet, and it is at first.
Most of the time I think I’m okay with knowing I won’t live as long as everyone else. Most of the time I’m good at pretending it’s okay if I never see France or have my first kiss, but now that it’s actually happening, I know how deeply I’ve been lying to myself.
I’m kissing—and it’s not bad.
Tucker’s hand curls around the side of my neck, and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue finds mine, and my belly ignites into flames, and then it’s not just not bad, it’s incredible.
If I’d known I was missing this, I’d have worked a lot harder to make it happen.
A door closes downstairs, and I leap back.
“It’s probably my mom,” he says. “She won’t come up.”
But the distraction pulls me right back to reality. I was just kissing Tucker St. Clair. I don’t even know him. It’s almost crazier than leaping off a coaster. I grab my bag and start stuffing my notebook inside.
“I have to get going.”
“But we haven’t done any work,” he protests.
“Yeah, sorry. I forgot about this thing I have to do.”
“Okay…Well, I’ll drive you, then,” he offers.
I start to say no—that my mom wants to come get me—but stop. It sounds so lame. Besides, if I call her, she’ll have to drive here, and I’ll have to wait with Tucker until she arrives, and I just can’t.
“If you don’t mind,” I say.
“Of course not.” He hesitates a moment, and I think we might kiss again, or worse, he might ask why I’m being so weird, a question I don’t have an answer to. But then he climbs off the bed.
I follow him downstairs. Martina looks up from where she’s dusting a buffet table in the hall.
“Driving Hope home,” Tucker says. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“So soon? Well, it was nice to meet you,” Martina says.
I smile awkwardly and trail behind Tucker through a pristine kitchen full of stainless-steel appliances and marble countertops, where a woman in an impeccable black skirt suit yells into her cell, and then out a side entrance into a huge garage. There are two sports cars parked inside, along with the type of old-timey muscle car that people only buy to wash and buff and take for pleasure cruises down Canal Street.
Tucker deactivates a car alarm. The taillights of a white Audi R8 flash as he rounds to the passenger side and pulls the door open for me. I climb in, taking in the all-leather interior and flashy dash. It’s spotless, and a tasteful air freshener perched on one of the air vents makes the whole thing smell like cinnamon. When he starts the car, the purr of the engine is nothing like the choking growl of the Rio. I’ve never been in a car half as nice, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. I have to remind myself that it’s just money. It doesn’t make him better than me.
My phone buzzes in my purse. The whole home screen is full of texts and missed calls from Mom. I hide it before Tucker sees.
She’s going to murder me dead for ignoring her. But how did she expect me to (theoretically) get any work done if she was just going to text me the whole time? I’ll deal with her when I get home.
“Where do you live?” Tucker asks as the garage door trundles up and he pulls out into fading daylight.
“Um. Around Iberville?” I say, like it’s a question. My cheeks heat up, and I feel a pinch in my lungs.
But Tucker doesn’t react to my skeezy neighborhood, and soon we’re merging onto the freeway.
“So, Ethan seemed kind of pissed at me today.” Tucker looks in the rearview mirror and changes lanes.
“He’s fine,” I say.
“Are you guys a thing? I thought he was with Savannah, but if you two are together, I don’t want to…”
“What? No.” I focus on the white arch of the Superdome appearing before us. “No, we’re not a thing.”
“Okay.” After a beat, he adds, “Are you just not into me, then?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I mean, you’re fine.” I cringe at the poor choice of words. “Sorry, this is all new to me.” I glance over. His eyes leave the road momentarily, and he smiles. That dimple is back.
“It’s really okay,” he says. “We can take it slow.”
I’m glad he’s driving and has to keep his eyes on the road so he doesn’t see how deeply I’m blushing.