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“Is that a joke about my leg?” I arch a brow at her over my shoulder. “And yes, I am because I can think of a lot of positions we’ve been in that would make me the world’s leading expert on your legs.”
We get to my car, I can’t contain the grin that spreads across my face when I see the hood reinstalled. I’m sure I look like a psychopath right now, but I don’t care. I glance at her, catching the quizzical look on her face when she tilts her head. She reaches down and touches the hood, tracing her fingers in a swirling pattern.
“I thought you were getting it fixed?”
“Not exactly. Preserved.”
She traces the outlines of the swirls and scratches we left in the paint that night, now filled with a contrasting gold paint. I didn’t want to erase the evidence of that night—I wanted to make sure the metal exposed by the scratches wouldn’t rust—and the memory of the most intense sex of my life was permanently preserved.
She hums to herself. “It has a certain abstract art, je ne sais fuck me harder Daddy vibe to it.”
“I don’t think that’s how that expression goes.”
She squints and hums again. “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it went that night.”
I step toward her and drop a hand to her waist. “Does that mean you like it?”
She shakes her head, and for a second, I start to worry. She stands on her toes and pecks my cheek with a kiss. “I love it, almost as much as I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Does that mean I get out of doing this dinner?” She scrunches her shoulders and plasters on a pleading grin.
“Nope, not that easy. They even pushed back dinner to make sure we’d be back in time. Believe me, I’d rather take you upstairs and spend the rest of the night in my bed than go to the diner.”
Selfishly, I’m still tempted to do just that, but I know Josie is going to leave town again soon. I want her to spend time with Sisi before she leaves and see my parents. Somehow, that makes this—trying to make some kind of relationship between us work—feel more real.
CHAPTER 46
JOSIE
Punish Me Later
At least I had time to go upstairs, shower, and change first. We didn’t stay long, but it was enough to remind me that Sly’s apartment has everything a girl needs. It’s surprisingly homey, and that roomy shower could make it a great home base.
I think back to my conversation with Grace that first night of our Joshua Valley trip, about it being okay to stop running. Maybe slowing down a little could be good for me. Seeing how happy Grace is after meeting TJ, how he manages to toe that perfect line of being a calming, grounding presence for her, but also lets her stretch her wings and be herself. I can see why my best friend married him without a second thought.
I’ve been going so fast for so long, the idea of having a place to stop and breathe feels almost as liberating as being on the road all the time. Years ago, even considering that idea would have seemed insane to me. Now, I think I like the sound of it.
Sterling Springs might not be the first place I would have considered as a home base for my nomadic life, but I don’t think it’s the place itself that matters. It’s having a person to come back to, a person who I know is waiting for me. Maybe that’s who Sly always was for me.
The buzzing from my hoodie pocket snaps my attention back to the present, away from the promising future I’m trying not to be too obsessive about.
Looking at the screen, I see the notification that I’ve been tagged in a post. Nothing new—fans, subs, and tattoo content pages are always tagging me and reposting or sharing things from my public social media pages that I use to promote my not-so-public, not-safe-for-work page. When I open the post, my whole body tenses.
The photo isn’t one of my carefully cropped or posed ones where my face isn’t visible. It’s a carousel of the group selfies Sly took over the weekend, and everyone is tagged.
“Sly, you need to delete that post right now.” I step in front and hold up my phone to stop him. “Like, right now. Delete this. When did you even post this?”
His brows furrow, and he looks at my screen as we stand in front of the diner. “I never post, but I had such a good time this weekend. I tagged everyone because I thought they’d want to see the pictures too.”
“That’s fine. You can send them those pics in a group chat, and beg your brother for his pancake recipe. Just delete it, right now, because you tagged my Black Sheep Bunni account…”
His eyes widen when he understands the urgency. He simply nods, pulls his phone out, and quickly swipes through the app.
“Fuck. Shit. I’m sorry,” he says, almost as a confirmation that it’s been deleted.
I breathe a sigh of relief and grab his wrists, making him look at me. “It’s fine. I know you basically have the social media skills of an octogenarian, so I’ll let it slide this time.”
