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“Yeah. I finished high school.”
    A beat of silence followed before I asked another question, “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-three.”
    He was three years older than me. And he never went to college. “What do you do?”
    The skin along his jaw tensed, a muscle feathering the skin, a hint that I had hit a nerve. “Who said I did anything?” His tone was hard, almost mocking again.
    I’m sure that he did something—how else did he survive?—but now I’d annoyed him and he wasn’t about to share anything with me. I shrugged like I didn’t care.
    “How about we start with names?” I asked, my voice conciliatory. “I’m Emerson.”
    “Shaw,” he returned.
    Shaw . He looked like a Shaw. Whatever that meant. It just fit him. I exhaled through my nose. The air escaping the vents was feeling decidedly warmer now.
    “Emerson.” He shifted the truck into drive and backed out. “Well. Hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you’ve got some suck-ass friends.”
    A breath shuddered from my lips. “Yeah. Well. They’re not really my friends.”
    “Guess that’s good, but then why were you out with them tonight?”
    Because an ugly conversation with my mother sent me over the edge and made me act stupid.
    Instead of saying that, I admitted, “ ’Cause my real friends all have boyfriends.”
    The words slipped freely from my lips and I realized I might have been better off if I’d just admitted to a fight with my mother. If I’d been sober I probably wouldn’t have blurted out such a thing. I almost sounded like I envied my friends their girlfriend status.
    “And you don’t?” Was he trying to find out if I was available? But he’d already made it clear he wasn’t interested in fooling around with me. My gaze traveled over the hands holding the steering wheel. They were big, masculine hands. Sexy, with strong lines and blunt-nailed fingertips. The kind of hands that screamed capable, strong. Hands that would know how to touch a girl.
    Blinking, I forced my gaze to the road, my grip on my knees tightening. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend. What about you?”
    He rolled up to a stop light and eased on the brakes. “No. No boyfriend either.”
    I giggled. I couldn’t help it. My body relaxed and slipped to the side, sagging against the door. With a hiccup, I turned and watched him from beneath heavy lids. “You’re funny.” And panty-dropping hot. The insane impulse to crawl across the seat and press my mouth to his neck seized me. Alcohol motivated, I’m sure. That and the fact that it was a Saturday night and I would typically be tangled up with a boy by now.
    He considered me with his brown eyes, making me feel all soft and fuzzy inside. The cab of the truck felt warm and cozy. I could doze off right here. “So how come you don’t have a boyfriend like your friends do, Emerson?”
    “Too much trouble.” I sighed sleepily. “A boyfriend would just keep me from doing whatever I wanted to do.” Was that my voice all throaty?
    His gaze, bottomless and deep, gleamed in the shadows of his truck. He eyed my legs, encased in snug denim. I felt stripped bare under his regard and the sensation wasn’t entirely bad . “And what kinds of things do you want to do?” His voice dragged over my skin like a physical caress.
    Smiling, my head rolled against the back of the seat. I was buzzing, floating in a feel-good state. I felt a little dangerous, untouchable, which was a heady thing. Deceptive maybe, but I felt empowered . . . in control again. “Oh, all kinds of bad things.”
    And then, because I couldn’t stop myself, I stretched toward him as far as my seat belt would allow. Until the tip of my nose brushed his neck. My lips moved against his skin as I spoke, “Things like this.”
    A small hiss escaped him. I pulled back and looked up at him. Really, I could hardly keep my eyes open even as much as I wanted to keep looking at him.
    His voice rumbled up from his chest, deep and tight