“No,” she says. “Zeb wants to know if I made it home. I actually haven’t heard from my stalker in a couple of days. And I don’t usually text her without her giving me a reason to.”
“Probably shouldn’t be texting her at all,” I say.
“Probably,” she agrees. She glances my way and sets her phone down. “I won’t next time. I’m done.”
We’ll never be done.
I want to tell her I know she’s lying; however, I simply switch hands on the wheel and smile softly at her. “Something tells me I’ll have to have Kade pull phone records to find out if that’s the truth.”
Her eyes widen at me. “Wait… you haven’t… I mean, you haven’t seen, like, my dating apps or anything, have you?”
I scoff. “We’re your security team, not the CIA,” I say, lying through my fucking teeth.
Relief visibly sweeps over her. “Thank fuck for that,” she mutters.
“I mean, Ihaveseen who you’re chatting with,” I partially admit. “But not the messages.”
“Oh yeah? Am I being catfished by anyone?” she asks, and I wish I could share her amusement.
I chew on the inside of my bottom lip, shoulders tensing, and I keep my eyes on the road. “You don’t need to worry about that,” I choose to say.
“Oh shit. I am, aren’t I?” she asks.
“If you are, you won’t have to worry about them any longer,” I tell her.
“What does that mean?” she asks, balking slightly.
I smile as I realize exactly how that sounded. “I just mean they won’t show up on your app anymore,” I say, lying once again.
“Oh. Wow, that was a little terrifying for a minute. The thought of you as a fixer kind of got me all warm and fuzzy,” she says jokingly.
You’d be really hot and bothered if you truly knew the things I’m capable of.
“Kade is the fixer,” I tell her. “I’m usually the one fucking things up.”
“That’s really hot,” she says.
I laugh and shake my head. “You shouldn’t think that’s hot.”
She’s quiet for a beat, and when she doesn’t argue, I finally look her way.
“I’m waiting for you to tell me why I shouldn’t think it’s sexy,” she says.
“You know, for someone who is completely against relationships, you flirt alot,” I say, changing the subject.
“And for someone who doesn’t do casual, you rode my hand like a fucking pro,” she argues.
My tongue darts out over my lips, my muscles feeling more and more restless with every passing second.
I can’t even argue with her.
“Shut up,” is the only hiss of words I can manage.
The only stop we make on the way is a quick one at a farmer’s stand to get her fruit for the week. It’s really fucking cute how she barely tries to disguise herself. A couple of fans give her the horns hand gesture upon seeing her, and she does it back with glee.
I don’t think I had produce shopping on my list of things I ever wanted to do with her, though now that I have, I’m imagining lazy Sunday’s at markets and brunch and hiking andso many activitiesthat were unattainable just weeks before.
By the time we get to her apartment, my face hurts from smiling. I’m high from her presence. She’s so much more than the person I had made up in my head, so much better than the fantasy I clung to for years.
