“Who are you?”
“Does it matter?” I cock a brow, challenging her to care.
She laughs, and it’s like music, free and unencumbered.
“No, I guess it doesn’t.”
We stare at each other for several quiet seconds, the beat of my breath matching hers. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, her face so serene that I feel relaxed because of it.
“You’re pretty,” she says on an exhalation of breath.
Flowers are pretty. The sky is pretty. Women are pretty.
I am none of those things.
“You’re drunk, and I’m not pretty.”
Adeline pushes up to kneel in her seat and leans over the center console, her palm cupping my cheek as tender as a lover.
“Yes, you are. But you’re flawed. I can see all the mistakes. You’re gorgeous because of those flaws.”
My eyes widen, heart hammering. She needs to go. This is too much. Too close. How the fuck does she know that?
It’s the tragic artist in her. She looks for the cracks and fissures, the imperfections in anything she sees.
Her sloppy grin widens, pearly white teeth glimmering beneath.
“It’s okay. I’m flawed, too. Would you like to see?”
What a stupid question. I don’t need to see. I already know all her flaws. I could write a fucking book about them.
Adeline doesn’t wait for an answer before climbing over the center console to straddle my lap. And while I should open my door to jump away, I find myself sucking in a breath, my body going far too still.
She leans forward to press her mouth to my ear.
“I don’t even know your name, and all I want to do is kiss you right now. How fucked up is that?”
Extremely. It is just one of the things about her that drives me crazy. Don’t get me wrong; I love that about her. But I also hate it.
“We shouldn’t do that,” I answer.
“I like doing things I shouldn’t.”
Yes, yes she does. She really is a little monster.