"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
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♥ ♥ ♥
QUIETLY, I WEIGH THE PROBABILITY OF MIRA knocking me out and snatching the keys from my cold, dead hands before fleeing the country.
I wonder if I should mention that it's probably too late now, her house already looming in front of us, and Kenna's determination when it comes to throwing parties might just chase her across the Mexican border should she choose to go that route. Honestly, she might not be safe anywhere so long as McKenna Westbrooke lived and breathed and could hold a confetti gun.
I decide to keep that to myself, killing the engine and stepping out of the driver's seat into Zahed's suspiciously empty driveway.
Trepidation echoes in her heels clicking down onto the smooth stone. A glance over my shoulder shows she's slow to fully climb out of the passenger seat, eyes darting suspiciously around her vacant front yard.
"Zahed," I call out, closing my door softly. "Stop looking like you want to kill somebody."
As I round the car to meet a vibrantly on-edge Mira, I can't help but note how her hair falls rustled and wild from the sea breeze, soft waves flowing over violently tense shoulders.
I draw to a stop outside her open passenger's door and slip my fingers through her hair, more pure instinct than anything.
That gets her attention.
Grey eyes snap up to meet me. She hasn't even unbuckled her seatbelt. Her body is as tightly wound as a noose, shoulders tense, legs hanging out the edge of the car like she's considering pulling them back inside and slamming her door and locking it after her. Her gaze is as trained as any predator's, as if she half expects Kenna to come jumping out from behind her mother's bushes any given moment. Her hair is soft under my hand but her tongue is sharp, stating, "But I do want to kill somebody."
I can't help smiling at that. "By somebody," I observe with a lifted brow, "you mean me, don't you?"
Her lips twitch then, like she wants to smile with me. Hell, I want that too, Zahed. "Maybe," she replies dubiously.
"Maybe," I repeat in mocking disbelief, shaking my head incredulously as I dare to drop my hand from her hair to unbuckle her seatbelt. It falls away with a click. She looks at my hand like she wants to slice it clean off. But I'm already retrieving it, slipping it into my pocket. If she misses it from her hair, she gives no indication except for that glare but I'm tossing her a winning grin all the same as I say, "Fuck maybe. You fantasise about me all the damn time."
Seatbelt forgotten, her nose wrinkles in disgust. "About killing you," she informs me sharply. "You shouldn't look so happy about that. Only you would get off on the idea of me beating your stupid ass—,"
I bark a laugh, unable to resist leaning forward until I can count the thick dark lashes ringing her eyes. "You can't beat my ass even if you tried, Zahed. But you are invited to try." Heavy lashes flutter as her eyes narrow at me. "Now, are you going to get out of the car or do you want me to carry you myself?"
