Page 29 of The Golden Scoop

“Do you need to be reminded of the text feature you couldn’t seem to resist last night?”

“I prefer calling when I have the chance.”

“Why on earth would that be better?”

“Because I get to hear your voice.”

Nope. Not engaging with that one either.

“Ahh. You wanted a front-row seat to my disappointment when you told me your ‘outing’ has fallen through.”

“You wish. I’ve cleared my schedule for the rest of the day. Send me your address, I’ll pick you up.”

“I can meet you there.”

“My outing, my rules,” he insists. “And honey⁠—”

“Emma’s fine.”

“Wear your overalls.”

Thirty minutes later, he’s at my front door in a plain navy tee and washed-out jeans. There’s a small part of my brain that lights up with excitement for the adventure. Very concerning.

And I’m… I’m wearing my overalls, with my little notebook and pen stuffed in the front pocket, itching for the next layer of Matt Hunt I’m about to uncover.

“How many cars do you have?” I ask when he opens the passenger door of a blacked-out SUV. When I first saw it, I fully expected there to be a chauffeur inside, but Matt hops into the driver's seat ready to take on traffic himself.

“Just the two,” he answers. “I normally drive the other one, unless I’m trying to keep a low profile, and then I’ll take this baby out for a ride.”

I take out my notebook and pretend I’m writing. I’m hoping it annoys him enough to go back to hating me. Plus, it keeps me from staring at him.

“Out of everything you could’ve found interesting about me, you landed on the number of vehicles I have?” He laughs.

“You don’t even know what I’m writing, Matthew.”

He looks over, but I press the paper against my chest.

“Ohh, wrong move baiting me like that. I have no problem getting physical,” he teases with a wink. “It might backfire if you tempt me enough.”

I’m left speechless yet again. I can’t flirt. Not with him. And not without embarrassing myself.

He sneaks a look at me, sitting in silence and decides to cut me some slack.

“Relax. We’re almost there,” he reassures. “It’s nothing fancy. You might even enjoy the peace.”

A couple of minutes later we’re parking on the side of the road in front of a supermarket.

“Please tell me you’re not planning on making a five-course meal at home,” I groan, dreading the intimacy that would come with that situation.

“As much as I would love to prove you wrong,” he says, coming around to open my door for me, “whenever I cook for you, it’ll be because you asked me to.”

“Phew. Glad to know that’s never happening.”

He smirks, his eyebrow raised. I can tell he’s got his answer ready, but for once he swallows it back down.

And it has the opposite effect of what I wanted.

Because instead of satisfied, now I’m craving his thoughts even more. Which is new, and leaves me feeling like I’m slowly losing control of the narrative—and my feelings.