Westerfield High.
The sleek scissor doors of the Lamborghini Huracán swung upward.
Scott stepped out, running a hand through his wolf-cut hair as the morning sun caught the strands just right. He'd barely straightened his cream Henley before the whistles started.
Wheeeeeew!
"Yo, McQueen! Nice ride!"
"Bro, is that a Huracán?!"
"Scott! Over here!"
Students who had been shuffling toward the entrance like zombies suddenly came alive. Phones were pulled out. Groups formed. The crowd of teens and young adults couldn't take their eyes off him.
Some of them knew he was a celebrity.
Others were already following his Instaflick account so they'd even seen his Christmas posts with Bella Trevors at the country club.
He was a sensation.
Scott offered a lazy wave that excited them even more.
But he wasn't looking at them.
He was looking at the passenger seat.
