June Horner's entire life came crashing down in one night.
After a vengeful ex-boyfriend spread rumours about her, destroying her reputation and making her undesirable by nearly every acting and modelling agency in existence, she was lost for months...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
d e l i c a t e
˜"*°•.˜"*°•.•°*"˜.•°*"˜
but you're so cool, run your hands through your hair absentmindedly making me want you.
.҉ .҉ .҉
CHARLES LEADS US out of the airport and into the car park, where we then weave through a never ending stream of cars until we get to his. I have to roll my eyes when I see his fancy Ferrari. He places my bags in the boot—and I'm secretly surprised by the amount of space, I always thought sports cars had no boot space at all—and is adamant on opening the passenger door for me. The whole time he's keeping casual conversation about our respective lives and the upcoming races.
"Have you been to Bahrain before?" He asked, turning the ignition. Charles turns in his seat, putting his hand on the back of my seat as he reverses out of the parking spot—for some reason that sent a fluttering sensation to my stomach—and he looks at me a bit longer than I think he should, only because I worry that he's going to hit someone.
"Yeah, a few times for races," I answer, nervously picking at a hangnail on my thumb.
My phone is vibrating continuously on my lap and I can see notifications from the girls' groupchat pile in, there's a lot of bride emojis and I see messages trying to explain what a "situationship" is to Nora. She's saying how there isn't a word for that in Italian, and that confuses her. I guess that's the point of a situationship, it's confusing.
"Is that your phone?" Charles asks casually, he has one hand on the wheel while the other fiddles with the radio.
"Yeah—I'm sorry. I'll shut it off," I stammer, remembering how annoying Jack found it when my phone kept going off.
"No, it's fine," He says through a breathy laugh, "I just thought it could have been mine."
"Oh," I mutter. "Sorry."
"You say that a lot."
"What?" I ask.
"Sorry," he says, "you don't need to." He hands me his phone from the cup holder, adding: "not with me, anyway." I look down at his phone, his lockscreen is a photo of his own car in a cloud of smoke, I guess he was doing donuts as the picture was taken.
"My password is 16-10-97, my phone's connected to the car's Bluetooth," he says, casually shifting gears. "Play whatever you like on Spotify. I trust you."
"You want me to go on your phone?" I ask, almost in disbelief. All I can think about in that moment was Jack, how protective he would get over his phone and any other device he owned.
"Yeah?" He laughs, "how else would you play Spotify?" The way he asks is so casual, so utterly nonchalant. Me going on his phone—unsupervised—is a completely normal and okay thing to him. It takes me a half-second to wrap my head around it, then I'm gingerly typing in his passcode, part of me expecting him to lash out because it was actually just a test.
