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“He’s not my friend,” she snapped. “He’s my ex.”
I made a face, and she covered hers, seeing me. “That’s worse, Summer.”
“I know,” she groaned and stopped again. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“Somewhere private,” I said, checking the time on my watch and looking at her feet. Without thinking, I grabbed her hand and dragged her to the nearest shoe store. “Come with me.”
“I don’t need shoes. Why are we here? Do you need shoes?” she asked, her voice small and angry as the staff smiled at us.
I eyed the various sneakers and pointed to three pairs, making her sit down. “Try them on.”
“But I don’t need them.”
“Yes, you do.” I glared at her, crossing my arms. “Try. Them. On.”
She didn’t argue, but huffed and rolled her eyes at me. I clenched my jaw when she tried to hide her wince, removing her heel and trying on a sneaker. When I helped her with it, I noticed a small sore on her foot. I didn’t like that she had to walk in such high heels and be in constant pain.
I won’t lie. I loved to see her in pain. But only when it was me who gave her that pain with a hint of pleasure.
“Walk in them. Are they comfortable?” I asked, my voice stern, and the staff were eyeing us. Of course, they knew Summer. Her face was plastered on most of the billboards and magazines for her latest show. I glared at them until they looked away.
“Yeah, they are good, but I really don’t understand what we are doing here. This isn’t even something private. Is this some—”
“Shh.” She was taking them off already, but I stopped her. “Keep them on.”
I ignored her protest when I took the heels, noting her size, and asked one employee for a carry bag.
“What are you doing? Why are you paying for the shoes?” She sounded furious when I gave a black card to pay for her three pairs of shoes.
“Because I can.”
“I never asked you to.”
Before I could argue with her, the employee handed me my card and three bags with her shoes and heels. “Let your boyfriend pay for them, ma’am. By the way, I love the trailer for Hate Love. I can’t wait for it to air! Do you mind giving me an autograph?”
Neither of us denied being a couple, and I noticed how Summer’s eyes lit up as she talked with her fan, signing an autograph and even taking a picture with her.
“I’ll pay you back,” Summer said as soon as we stepped out of the store.
I didn’t reply and led her to the restaurant where I had made a reservation before following Summer out of the office. She walked much better than before, and I was sure her feet would thank me in the future.
The restaurant was in a little alley so very few people frequented it. As soon as you stepped inside, the warm and cozy interior with dark colors welcomed you along with a delicious scent of spices and smoked food.
“I didn’t know this was a restaurant,” Summer said, looking around the small place with a soft smile. She thanked our server and looked at the menu.
“I’m sorry.” My throat constricted saying the words, and I glared at the clean table before continuing, “I was trying to push you, and what I said before you left wasn’t professional, and if you work for me, it won’t happen again.”
She didn’t reply and when I met her eyes, she was staring at me with narrowed eyes. “Wasn’t professional? It wasn’t appropriate, Damon.”
“I thought you liked my dirty talk, kitten.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked around before leaning close and whispered, “Can you stop calling me that?”
I pointed at the menu. “I recommend their baked ziti.”
Thankfully, she didn’t bring it up again for the remainder of our lunch, and we ate our food talking about Emma, Mia, Moore Beauty and her job.
“Enough with small talk, I want—” the ringtone of her phone interrupted me. Her hand tightened on the phone and she stood up.
