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Elle swallows what sounds like a giggle. “And you’re sulking again.”
“I am not—”
The moment I make eye contact, I realize she’s trying to provoke me.
Fuck.
I suppose I can’t blame her.
She’s trying to restore a little normalcy between us again—whatever passes as normal for us, when we barely know each other and we have to pretend we’re engaged.
Still, there’s a certain comfort in this too.
In knowing she doesn’t want the memory of that kiss hanging awkwardly between us, no matter what latent things came to life the moment our lips touched.
I can’t hold back my scowl.
Just like I can’t bring myself to kick her out of my lap, either, especially when the car is coming to life with a rumble and moving forward when I’m not sure she should be sitting up.
Sighing, I watch her.
“Just rest, Elle,” I say. “I’ll have you home soon.”
We didn’t kiss again when I dropped her off, even if it wouldn’t have been out of place.
For all I know, there were paparazzi hiding in Miss Jacqueline’s hedges, but it felt prudent not to mix up my brain any further with this gal.
So I let her off on the curb with a polite farewell, watched to make sure she reached the door, and chose not to respond when she stopped and raised her hand in a little wave before ducking inside.
For some reason, missing a second kiss bothers the hell out of me.
Just logistics, I’m sure. Whatever helps keep this farce publicly visible and visibly believable.
Nothing more.
I have plenty of other worries—like the text waiting on my phone.
Snarky. Cutting. Angry.
Oddly jumbled, like it always is.
Unknown: nice you gt the hole intentent buzzing laready
Unknown: tring to plafy for the sy mpthay points ... SAD!
I frown.
“Merrick?” I ask pointedly.
“Yes, Mr. Marshall?” Merrick’s eyes meet mine in the mirror.
“Has anyone requested my number lately?”
“No, Mr. Marshall.”
He watches me strangely in the mirror as I text back.
I probably have the damnedest look on my face right now. Who the hell is this and how did you get my number?
