He shifts in his seat, bringing him closer to me. A large hand slides under my hair and cups the back of my neck. Bobby’s gaze cuts to my eyes before landing on my mouth. I lick my bottom lip from the attention. His mouth parts. His thick fingers massage my heated flesh, and I press my legs together. With his gaze fixed on my mouth, he brings me to him at the same time he leans in.
“You’re gorgeous, Ever. So fucking gorgeous.” His hand moves from my neck to the side of my face.
I don’t miss that he’s shielding me from curious onlookers’ stares with his large, muscular body. Is he someone important in Alexandria? Why were those women so focused on Bobby and wanting their time with him? There are other good-looking men here, though in my opinion, they’re not as sexy as the one sitting with me, with his fingers stroking the curve of my cheek.
“I bet you tell every woman who crosses your path that they’re gorgeous.” I settle my forehead on his and gaze into his eyes. The eyes are the window to the soul for a reason.
“Gorgeous is reserved for goddesses.” He brings my knuckles to his lips.
I sputter laughter. “I am not goddess gorgeous.”
“GAFG?”
“What?” My eyes must be wide.
He laughs. “Gorgeous as fuck goddess?”
“Or we can compromise, and I’m princess gorgeous?”
“You got it, babe.”
“Oh, no, I am not a man’s babe.”
“Baby, sweetheart?”
“You gotta come up with something more original.” If we see one another again. It’s a big if. This sexy, tatted sex on legs is the opposite of the kind of guy Ty wants to see me with when I’m eighty years old. Guys are off-limits until I graduate. It’s Ty’s last rule, which is why Gage sticks close by me, among other reasons.
“You’re right. You’re different from the women I talk to.”
“How so?” Invisible fingers grip my insides and twist. Why am I jealous that he talks to other women? He’s not my guy, and if I have my way, he will never be more than a stranger who happens to make me feel less lonely in a crowd.
“You haven’t asked in the first ten minutes of us meeting what I do for work, what I drive, or how deep my pockets are.”
“Women seriously ask how loaded you are?” Rude.
He nods.
“I’m sorry.” I pop another marinara-soaked cheese stick in my mouth and quench my thirst from all this talking with a large gulp of water before I speak. “So, Bobby, what kind of car do you drive? What line of work are you in? How deep are your pockets?”
He belts out laughter, and I smile, enjoying the deep, throaty sound straight from his core.
“Can I answer the first question and skip the others?”
I bow my head and sweep out my arm. “Be my guest.”
He laughs again. I find myself staring at his mouth and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.
“I drive whatever vehicle suits my needs.”
“The better question would be, how many cars do you own?” I do the “gimme, gimme” with my fingers. He shakes his head.
“Is it insane to admit I own twelve?”
I would’ve fallen off my seat had I been sitting in a chair instead of in the middle of the bench seat. I gather myself and sit with my hands clasped on the table. I won’t let the number have me thinking he’s filthy rich. Carlos owned half that many, and most were run-down. He called his collection of non-running cars his project cars.
“Insanity is in the eye of the beholder,” I say. “And you are most certainly not insane. My room is full of plushies to the point you can’t step inside. Insanity, right?”
He chuckles. “Nah. That’s an obsession. Or you just like plushies.” He shrugs.
