Only that would be awkward. He’d want to know what you’re talking about because you like him to think he’s not as transparent as he really is, so you just nod at the seat beside you and ask, “Can I give you a ride?” And I’m not just talking about to the station.
His smile widens, if that’s possible. “You sure?” he asks, as if he doesn’t dare hope…
“Sure, I’m sure.” You jerk a thumb at the seat and wink at him, even though that might be a bit much. “Hop on in.”
You don’t need to tell him twice. He all but leaps over the hood of the car—you can hear his jeans scrape the custom paint job you put on this thing, but hey, it’s not real—and then he’s tugging on the handle to the passenger side door, eager to get in. It’s hard to ignore the way your pants bite into your crotch when you lean acr
