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“You askin’ me if I date, Kitten?”
“You asked me. It’s only fair.”
“I’ve had a few girl—friends.”
“Anything serious?”
“Nope.”
For some reason, I can see my answer displeases her. That displeases me. Because isn’t that a thing chicks feel when the guy they like has a history ofsomething serious with another woman? Displeasure? Jealousy?
Wrenlee almost looks put out I’ve never had something serious with a chick.
She pushes away her food, a hand on her belly. “I’m stuffed.”
I raise a brow. “You’re not going to finish?”
She leans forward to push her half-eaten burger my way. “You can, if you want it.”
Something about the gesture feels familiar in a way that even kissing doesn’t. Candace does this very same thing to Ian, Mom the same with Dad. It’s a gesture I’ve only seen from people in real, serious, committed relationships. I fucking love that she’s doing it now with me, entirely unaware what it means.
I take her burger without a word, demolishing it in only a few bites. Then I stand, drop our shit into the trash, and tell her, “One more stop.”
Begrudgingly, she relents, “Fine.”
eighteen
Wrenlee
I dig my heels in as soon as I realize where we’re headed. Every limb locks and I know my eyes are comically wide. But this isn’t happening. He can’t be—he can’t be serious right now?
“Cash!” I snap, resisting the pull he has on my hand for the first time since he linked us together. “No.”
“This isn’t a negotiation, Kitten.”
I sputter. “You’re insane. I’m not going in there with you. No way.”
My skin is on fire. Hot pokers have skewered my nerves, twisting them over a raging flame.I’m going to die ofhumiliation.
“Wrenlee.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
My eyes lift in horror to the mannequin in the window—the one wearing the strappy little lace thing I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
“I don’t need that stuff.” I try to appeal to his reason, even though the man has proven time and again today that he has none. “I like my beer shirts.”
“So do I.” When he lets his eyes land and linger on me, I don’t feel like I’m dressed from head to toe in fabric. I feel like every stitch has been burned off, leaving me hot and bothered and vulnerable.
I don’t like it.
Okay, I tell myself I don’t like it. I also have the sense to know that I’m lying to myself. Something I’ve never done before Cash. Something I do a lot now.
A grin hitches his lips and I’m about to start lying into him when he says gently, “You hardly have any clothes, Kitten. You’re doing laundry every three days, so I figure you don’t have a lot of under—” His finger waves at my body. “Things.”
My face is onfire. “I’m going in alone.”
