Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 8: Emma

As soon as the car door shuts behind me, I take a deep breath. Earlier today, my mind had spun with possibilities of what this date would be like. I hadn't known what to expect out of Carter, but his choice in music surprised me.

I press my eyes shut, reminding myself that this is Carter. He's had a reputation since ... Well, since I can remember. No matter how hurt he looked when I called him by that awful nickname, I can't trust him.

This must be a show.

I open my eyes and straighten. This has to be what he does. He's been with enough girls to manipulate them into getting what he wants, and I'm no different.

It's one date, one night out, and I can survive this night without getting tricked by him. But I have to admit, it's nice to be away from my parents. Every weekend, they want me to study from their endless supply of books about new inventions, technological breakthroughs, and coding. In the past three years, I've spent a handful of nights out with the girls.

My parents claim, "Movies don't matter. You should invite your friends over to see the new documentary on the Mars Rover." Or insert any other scientific topic my parents feel like I need to learn about.

Carter shuts the passenger door, and the jolt of sound brings me back into the present. "You want to head inside?" He looks a bit off-kilter, embarrassed with a sheepish, shy smile.

I tell myself once again that this is Carter Ortese I'm thinking about.

I blink several times. Finally, my muscles break through my shock, and I nod. We walk across the parking lot together, but I keep a safe distance from him, not wanting our hands to come into contact again. My hands are so calloused from years of playing clarinet, and I'm always worried people will be repulsed by them. His fingers are soft. So soft.

Carter swings the door inward and waits for me to go inside first.

"Thanks," I say, but the word feels clumsy in my mouth.

"Any time." He flashes me a half smile and gets us a table for two. Within minutes, we're sitting across from each other with menus in our hands.

I feel like I'm barely functioning, on some kind of autopilot.

"What movie are we seeing?" he asks.

"I haven't decided yet."

I look the menu over, debating if I should have pasta. I want to, but my parents told me explicitly that spaghetti is a terrible choice for a date. Bad first impression, too much chewing, generally messy, the reasons piled on top of each other. Dad told me, "Order something with class, something that is delicate." Mom spent thirty minutes coaching me on how, exactly, I should eat such a meal.

"You haven't decided." Carter's voice is flat, unbelieving.

"I was thinking we could see whatever was on after we got out of dinner." I shrug, because I also wanted the option to opt out of a movie if dinner went horribly.

"You seem like the kind of person who would plan everything."

My cheeks redden, because those words describe my father exactly. Not me. Never. "And I thought you were the kind of person who likes surprises."

Carter clamps his mouth shut, and his eyes drift back to the menu. His irises are a steel blue and accent his dark hair perfectly. His hair is messy with purpose, and he's wearing a plain grey shirt, a dark grey hoodie, and skinny jeans. It's so perfectly him, but he somehow looks put together. I feel silly in my dress, and I wish I could have left my house looking as casual as he does.