If that was all, though, I might’ve tried to find a way to sneak out and see him. But at school, I became an outcast overnight. Rumors swirled about me and Dax. None of the students knew quite what to make of me anymore, so they ignored me. For months afterwards, I would go home, alone, and cry.
I hated Dax for making that scene, without even asking me. I hated him for making me want him so bad and uncontrollably that I was willing to go against my parents and lose their trust. I hated him for doing things like getting himself expelled so that my parents would never, ever approve of him. When Dax threw that punch, I felt like I lost everything.
So yes, I blamed him. Maybe I still do.
“Well, you started going through your laundry list of girls again, so I didn’t see the point,” I grumble, scowling at him. “And then I came by to tell you I was going to Boston, hoping you’d wish me well, and you were a total dick to me.”
“Can you blame me? You came by to rub it in my face that you were going to Boston, leaving all us hicks back in Friesville to choke on your dust,” he clarifies.
“No, I didn’t,” I say. “I thought you would be happy for me. I guess that’s too much to have expect from Dax Harding?”
He snorts. “Yeah.”
“I mean, have you ever been with a woman you haven’t treated like shit?” I spit out, recalling all the rumors about him. God, there’s been so many. Once I heard that he’d slept with two different girls in the same night, at the same party. And then there was the rumor that a certain dumpster was named after him because it was where he used to take girls to give him blowjobs between classes.
The more I think about it, the more disgusted I get. It’s a damn good thing I stopped things from going any further last night.
The rest of the ride is silent and strained. I spend much of the time looking out the passenger’s side window. It’s only when we’re halfway through the state of Massachusetts that I sneak a glance at Dax. Though I doubt he’s ever been outside the Pennsylvania state lines, he looks just as unimpressed as ever. By the time we get into the city and we’re navigating pretty heavy traffic past the Fenway exit on Interstate 90, he only looks annoyed. “What is this, NASCAR? I’ve never fucking seen such asshole drivers before.”
“They’re called Massholes. You’ve really never been out of Pennsylvania before?” I ask him incredulously.
He gives me a sour look. “You know us backwoods people,” he says with a mock Southern drawl, “We’re too busy screwing our sisters to travel much.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, stop it. Take this exit.”
He veers to the right onto Boylston Street. We end up at a standstill for a while, even though it’s Sunday afternoon, but I manage to direct him toward the law firm with little trouble. He pulls into a spot on a narrow cobblestoned street behind Fowler’s fire-engine red Porsche with the LITIG8 license plate.
By that time, my stomach is twisted in knots. Of course Mr. Fowler is here on a Sunday. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pull my hair out of the ponytail, fluff it, and scuff my feet into my heels. “I shouldn’t be long,” I murmur, gnawing on my lip.
He jumps out of the car and leans against it, eyes darting all over the place as if he hasn’t a clue what to look at first. “Take your time,” he says, gnawing on the stick of his blow pop and checking out my boss’ ride. As he does, two women in business suits do a double take and check him out.
I can’t blame them. This city has much to offer, but he’s the best looking thing on the street (and any other street in a fifty mile radius). The way his butt looks in those jeans? Criminal. I feel a chill snake down my back as I push open the door and think, Dax Harding is waiting for me.
Who the hell cares? Maybe in high school, that would’ve been a badge of honor for a girl, but he’s still just as immature as ever.
Immature but also really hot, with an insanely muscular, drool-worthy body and heavenly eyes that you can see your whole future in.
I try my best not to fixate on Dax as I get into the office building.
I rush up the stairs. When I get upstairs, of course, the door to Fowler’s office is open and the light is on. I manage to skitter past it and slide into my cubicle without hearing his annoyingly nasal voice call my name. Breathing a sigh of relief, I start to tear the cubicle apart, looking for the Mason Daniel brief. My cubicle is about the size of a closet, but that doesn’t make the brief any easier to find. I have files stacked on every surface. I start in all the usual places, like the filing cabinet, then move on to all the unusual places, like the waste bin and under the desk. Meanwhile, I’m sweating and my face is getting hotter.
I sit on the floor of my cubicle, gasping for breath. Where the hell is the file?
Finally, I get to my feet and shakily make my way to Fowler’s office. I take a deep breath and am just about to knock on his door when I realize the leather chair behind the desk in his enormous corner office is empty. Creeping in, I sigh. The guy is a complete disaster. He talks about me not having my shit together, but his desk is a mess. It’s a wonder he can find—