She groans, collapsing onto the bed with a dramatic flop. “You don’t get it. You’re just a boy. Tamara looks like she wasgenetically engineered for sequins. And me? I’m going to show up looking like a kindergarten art project gone wrong.”
“Lu.” I step closer, brushing a hanger off the floor with my boot. “You could wear a paper bag and still be the hottest one there.”
She peeks up at me through her lashes, but the doubt doesn’t leave her face. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to stand next to Tamara tomorrow night while she’s in… whatever that silver thing was she ordered.”
“Solution’s simple,” I say, shrugging. “We go shopping.”
Her jaw drops as she leans up on her elbows. “Shopping? Withyou? Absolutely not. What if someone sees us? What if they tell Eli?”
I arch a brow. “What’s he gonna do, ground you?”
“Yes! Maybe! Also, he’ll kill me. And you.”
“Not if I kill him first,” I mutter, then hold out a hand, waggling my fingers. “Come on, Lu. Let’s go get you something that doesn’t look like a bird.”
She shakes her head furiously, blonde hair whipping. “No way. I’ll just—” She gestures hopelessly at the pile. “I’ll find something.”
“Uh-huh. Because that’s going great so far.” I pluck a sequin top off the bed and hold it up. “What’s wrong with this one?”
She snatches it back, glaring. “It makes my boobs look weird.”
I bite back a smile. “You’ve lost perspective, Parnell. Your boobs couldneverlook weird.”
Her groan turns into a laugh despite herself, and that’s all the crack I need. I tug her up from the bed, ignoring her half-hearted protests.
“Truck’s outside. We’ll be back before anyone even notices. You can keep your cover story intact for tomorrow, just say it was a last-minute purchase.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re steamrolling me.”
“Lesson Seven,” I tell her, guiding her toward the stairs. “Don’t fight me when I’m right.”
She mutters something about hating my lessons, which is a giant fucking lie considering how often she comes apart on my cock—and especially because she’s still following me down the stairs.
By the time we hit the front door, she’s in full sulky negotiation mode.
“Fine, but I get music control.”
We cross the street and I unlock the truck, open the door, and gesture grandly. “Be my guest, Princess.”
“This is kidnapping,” she says, yanking the seatbelt across her chest.
“You got in willingly.”
“Under duress.”
I pull away from the curb, and she reaches for the stereo but pauses when she sees a takeaway cup in the console, with one pink and one green macaron balanced on the lid.
She blinks at me. “You brought me matcha?”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the road.
“And my favorite macarons?”
I shrug, turning the corner. “You’ve had a busy week. Big event tomorrow. Thought you might like a treat.”
“That is,” she sputters, hand darting for the pink one, “very efficient, actually.”
“Or thoughtful.”
