The drive to the clinic was exactly as tense and awkward as I’d anticipated. I’m not sure I can survive carpooling with Derek Blackwell again. Walking to his mansion and back would honestly be preferable. On my elbows. On a thorny road.
I was painfully self‑conscious of my breathing — too heavy, too loud, too obvious in the suffocating silence. Derek kept glancing at me like I might suddenly pass out or fling myself out of the moving car, and I kept pretending to be fascinated by the scenery outside the window while questioning every life choice that had led me here.
It was either that or look at him and point out that no normal person drives in absolute silence without even a faint radio hum. But I wasn’t doing that. Not after the diner. Not after the wrist‑grabber who still makes my sk
