He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. “It is not about control. It is about care.”
“Right, because dragging me around like a purse dog equals affection.”
He smirked. Of course he did. “I do not carry purse dogs. I carry women who fight. Like you.”
My brain short-circuited. “That is… not a normal sentence.”
“It is true,” he said with a shrug that should not have been hot, and yet here we were. “A man who walks away when you say ‘go’ either does not love you, or is too stupid to stay.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want someone who argues with me when I tell them to leave,” I countered, because logic.
“Or,” he said, stepping even closer—his voice like dark chocolate and sin, “you want someone who knows when to stay, anyway.”
Oh, no. Absolutely not.
“Wow,” I said, tossing my hair even though the wind immediately blew it back into my lip gloss. “Is that your move? Brooding protector with a side of possessive charm? Do women just fall apart when you monologue at them in alleys?”
“They usually fall apart when I kiss them,” he said simply.
I sputtered. Audibly.
“No one asked you to say that!” I pointed, flustered beyond measure.
He gave a slow, unapologetic smile. “You’re blushing, Freckles.”
I was not.
I was absolutely blushing.
“Okay, you know what?” I said, spinning on my heel. “Go back inside. Go back to your fan club. I’m getting an Uber, a burrito, and seven hours of sleep. Alone.”
But as I walked away, my heart was thudding in a very annoying, traitorous rhythm.
I was almost to the parking lot—almost free, almost emotionally stable—when I heard footsteps behind me.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
Oh ugh.
“Stop following me!” I called over my shoulder without looking.
“Safety precautions,” came that maddeningly calm voice. “I need to make sure my prize is in the same condition as when I found her.”
I whipped around so fast my purse almost flew off my shoulder. “Excuse me? Prize? I am not a vintage bottle of vodka or a rare Pokémon!”
He blinked slowly, then smirked like I’d just said something deeply amusing. “Of course not. You’re rarer.”
I let out a strangled noise and pointed a very aggressive finger at him. “You. Are a jerk-face.”
He clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. You wound me. Your words—like daggers.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll pop that overinflated ego of yours.”
He grinned. “Let me take you home.”
I narrowed my eyes. “No, thanks. I’m not hopping into a car with a guy who thinks he won me like a carnival prize.”
