Audrey: I can’t judge you for that. At least, you’re honest. But I need to go. I have an appointment with a student from one of my classes in five minutes, and I need to find his essay so we can go over it.
Me: Love you. Be nice to the student! He probably has a hangover, so dim the lights and talk slow.
Audrey: Love you.
I’ve never been so happy to see a ridiculous emoji in my life.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Drake
“You told me to dress like this, and you’re taking mehere?” Gianna plants both feet on the asphalt and gazes up at Table in the same way I did when I saw it for the first time. “I can’t go in there.”
I blow out a breath, amused by her reaction. “No one in there cares how you’re dressed.”
“But I do.”
“And I respect that. So if you got to do it all over again, what would you have chosen to wear?”
She huffs and faces me. “I don’t know. I would’ve researched it and figured out what was appropriate. But whatever the answer, it wouldn’t have been jeans, sneakers, and a plain white T-shirt. I thought we were going on a picnic or something.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like picnics because of bugs.”
A grin tickles her lips. “I did say that.”
“Okay, then trust me.” I stop in front of her, brushing a lock of dark hair off her shoulder. “When we walk in there, everyone will be looking at you. Be ready.”
“That’s my point. Why did you do this to me?”
“I didn’t do it. I assume your mom did.”
She lifts a brow, as if she’s not sure whether to fight me, laugh, or blush.
“You, Gianna Bardot, are going to have every head in the place turning because you’re so damn beautiful. Not because you’re in jeans.”
She sighs, fighting a grin. “It’s such a shame that a guy who looks like you and talks like you has such a low libido.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my libido.”
“You know what they say.”
“What’s that?”
“Everyone’s an expert from the sidelines.”
I roll my eyes, unable to hide my entertainment with this infuriating woman. “Come on.”
“But—”
“Come on,” I say, reaching for her hand without thinking. Her palm slips into mine, and we take a step in the most fluid, mostwe-do-this-all-the-timeway. As soon as she notices it, she starts to pull back. But this is the moment that I’ve been waiting for—dying for.
The natural progression of things.
Instead of letting her break the contact, I lace our fingers together. I don’t look back at her as we take the limestone steps to the restaurant slowly but intently. My grip is loose enough that she can pull away if she wants to, but tight enough that she understands my intent: I want to touch her. I want to hold her hand. I need her to know that I’m proud as fuck to walk into this establishment with her at my side, and for everyone inside said building to know she’s mine.
A surge of pride and protectiveness sweeps through me so hard that it nearly knocks me off my feet.My dream girl is on my arm. And I haven’t even kissed her yet.
