ANGEL ROSE
I'm riding in Frankie's car, the scent of leather and his cologne filling the air, still buzzing from the morning's drama. We're both quiet, the tension thick in the air like a palpable thing. I'm trying to distract myself, scrolling through my phone, swiping through social media feeds, but my eyes keep drifting back to Frankie.
His jaw's clenched, knuckles white, veins popping from his arms as he grips the steering wheel that hard. The muscles in his forearms are tense, his biceps flexed, and I can see the outline of his tattoo through his shirt. His eyes are fixed on the road, his gaze intense, and I can feel the anger radiating off him. Why do I still find him hot?
I was having such a great time at the cafe with him, laughing at his ex-lover making a total fool of hersel
