2. Asher

She was watching me, no doubt hexing the back of my head with some spell that will make my brain melt or turn me into a useless, pussy blob.

Seriously, she reminds me of Narcissa Malfoy with her haughty looks. That gaze of hers could make the president feel like a cockroach.

Darting my eyes back to the front windshield, I turn the headlights on. The sun hasn’t set any faster than normal, but the gray clouds are making the world dark. The wipers brush across my windshield, and I focus on their rhythm while I stew in this painful silence.

Why did I agree to this?

She sat in the back.

The fucking back.

Like I’m her chauffeur or some shit!

Who does that?

I’ve given up the rest of my weekend for this chick. Sure, she could have caught the bus, but like any of us were gonna make her do that. And then I looked around the room and saw all of my favorite people lamenting an end to their awesome time in Denver, and I couldn’t let it happen.

So, I took one for the team.

I played the martyr card—wasn’t gonna waste that, now was I?

They’ll all owe me a little something, and I’ll collect when I’m ready. I guess I should at least be grateful for that.

But driving the ice queen home is not exactly fun.

It’s such a shame that someone so gorgeous can be so fucking annoying. She’s heading back a day early so she can study.

Seriously.

What a way to spend a Sunday. I mean, I should probably study, too, but who gives up Denver for the books?

It’s insanity, I tell you. In-san-i-ty!

Clenching my jaw, I battle against the mouthful of words I want to spew at her.

“What is your problem? We were all having a blast, and you had to go and ruin it, didn’t you? It’s kind of selfish, you know.”

But I don’t say any of it. If I dare to even speak, she’ll probably throw me one of those icy glares. Her luscious lips will pull down in that unimpressed frown, and I’ll be dodging metaphorical bug spray while my cockroach ass scuttles into hiding.

But this silence is fucking killing me.

And dammit, it’s my truck!

With a soft growl, I punch the console and turn on the radio, forgetting that I drove down here by myself the other day, because I was stopping off to say hi to my aunt and uncle first.

Classical music starts blasting through the speakers, the energetic strings taking up every square inch of my truck.

Yes, shut up, I listen to classical music, okay? I like it. And the only time I ever get to hear it is when I’m by myself, so of course I pumped that shit until I was surrounded with a symphony of sound that made me feel like I could fly.

My eyes bulge as I start jabbing the screen, muttering lies while trying not to look in the rearview mirror. “Who’s been messing with my console? Damn radio.”

I dart a look at the road before struggling to change my tunes, then giving up with a huff and turning it off.

That’s when I hear her soft laughter. It’s more mockery than anything, and it gets my back up.

“I don’t know who was messing with?—”

“I love The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. It’s inspirational. ‘Winter’ is my favorite season from that piece.”

Checking the rearview mirror, I catch her eye, and wow. She seems to be serious. She raises her eyebrows at me, like she’s daring me to call bullshit.

I frown and scratch between my eyebrows. What’s she playing at here?

“You… you like classical music?” I finally ask.

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “It moves me. I grew up playing the cello. My dad was a double bass man, and… we bonded over it, I guess.”

Wow. She’s talking to me. She’s actually saying words in a civil tone, and there appears to be no venom coming out of her mouth. I check the mirror again, just to be sure. She’s looking out the window, and I decide to test the waters with a little truth.

“I played violin in high school. Hated every second of it,” I admit with a dry laugh. “But I did love being part of an orchestra. I loved the music.”

She snickers. “So, no one was messing with your stereo, then?”

Busted.

Well, shit. May as well own it.

With a little sigh, I turn the music back on and can’t help asking, “Any favorite composers?”

Glancing at me, she plays with a little smile before looking out the window again. “I’ll always have a thing for Beethoven. His Fifth Symphony is phenomenal. And ‘Jupiter’ by Holst moves me every time.”

Nice taste. She obviously likes the grandiose stuff. Which means she’ll probably also like… “‘Fanfare for the Common Man’ is one of my favorites.”

She grins. “They always use that in space movies. It’s perfect.”

“Just like they use ‘O Fortuna’ in medieval ones.”

She nods, sitting forward and looking right at me. “I sometimes listen to instrumental movie soundtracks when I’m studying.”

“Me too.” I can’t help smiling. I should be frowning, because I don’t like this woman, and having things in common with her is crippling my resolve. But I can’t shut up. “Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves… I know that movie’s really old, but the soundtrack is fucking brilliant.”

“It is,” she agrees. Holy shit, the woman knows how to agree with something I said! “And Harry Potter, you can’t pass up that soundtrack. It’s so magical. And don’t even get me started on How to Train Your Dragon. That one makes my soul soar.” She laughs.

It’s a pretty sound, carefree, just the way it was when she beat us all at poker last night.

I drink it in, trying not to be mesmerized by it, but damn, I want her to laugh again.

It takes me a second to find my voice while my freaked-out brain adjusts to the fact that Leilani Ice Queen Iona is conversing with me in a way that’s… well, fuck me… it’s civil!

Don’t even ask me why, but I want to keep it going, so I scramble for the first question I can find.

“So, you a Potterhead, then, or you just like the music?”

Her lips purse, her freckled nose scrunching as she murmurs, “I am. Like full-blown. I used to dress up as Hermione Granger every Halloween. Although, one year, I went as Professor Trelawny, and that was so fun.” She lets out an almost giggle, shaking her head at the window as she obviously looks back through her memory.

No fucking way.

My smile grows a mile wide. There are no Potterheads at Hockey House. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if Nolan U was a Muggle pit, but there she is… sitting in the back seat of my truck. A full-blown Harry Potter fan.

She starts to grin, and I manage to catch her eye in the rearview mirror.

It’s a connection. There’s no other way to describe it. I feel this jolt of electricity nip me, and I think she does, too, because all of a sudden, her eyes bulge, and then her expression shuts down.

Slumping back in her seat, she looks out the window and is probably reeling the same way I am.

We were just talking like normal people do. No, it was more than that. We were talking like you do with a new friend. Like when you’re a kid and you realize the person sitting next to you in class has the same pencil case or you both love the same book series or you’re wearing the same sweater. It’s that commonality connection.

But I can’t share that with Lani.

She’s the fucking ice queen of Nolan U.

We can’t be friends.

We can’t be anything.

So I turn back to my job as driver, clenching my jaw as “The Blue Danube” by Johann Strauss crescendos around us.