Wright:
I get her into my truck before Alex or Tessa can shout anything else out the door that will haunt me for the rest of my natural life.
Emma climbs in, legs bare, skin glowing under the streetlamp, tie-front shirt taunting the entire fabric industry with how hard it’s working.
She settles into the seat, exhales softly, and looks at me like she’s still feeling what was happening outside.
Like she wants more of it.
I grip the wheel.
Hard.
She buckles her seatbelt slowly—deliberately, I swear—and the motion makes her shirt shift just enough that I have to look away or crash into something.
“So,” she says lightly. “You’re very eager to leave.”
“Because,” I manage, “I was seconds away from doing things in public that would get me fired, arrested, and possibly excommunicated.”
S
