“The keys,” he says, his lips curling in disgust. “You didn’t think I came here to hang out with you, did you?”
I scoff, my gaze scanning him from head to toe. Rich people can be so aggressively incapable of basic decency, especially guys like David who were practically born with a silver spoon. And trust me, coming from an upper-middle-class background, I know what I’m talking about.
“You came here by this time for keys?” I tilt my head. “Funny, I don’t remember leaving any keys lying around for you.”
I hope my deliberate ignorance is sending him the message: nothing—absolutely nothing—is going to make me hand over my car. Sure, his dad technically bought it, but last I checked, David isn’t his dad, and I highly doubt his dad would pull some ridiculous power move just because I refuse
