She looked away.
Message received.
Like a nuclear bomb.
She must’ve read me like a book because she switched conversations. She’d made her point, and she was ready to move on.
“Try the cheese,” she said.
I attempted to focus on my salad while my thoughts raced trying to nail down a day that I hadn’t taken a pain pill.
“The cheese, I said, try it. The little white balls. They’re marinated mozzarella balls. Best I’ve ever had. … And drop it.”
Drop it.Drop it, Jagg, drop it.
I shoved a white ball in my mouth—amazing.
She smiled. I smiled back.
“Alright, Dr. Drew Pinsky, let’s get back to you. So you weren’t popular, despite the rich dad.”
She laughed. “In spite of it, you could say. My father kept his thumb on me. Restrictions, curfews. He’d check my phone, my social media. I was told what to do and how to do it. Every day of my life. I had zero independence.”
“And you rebelled?”
“I’d say that’s an understatement.”
“Is that why you live the way you do?”
“And what way is that?”
“Minimally and ridiculously independently.”
“Yes. I didn’t want his money. I still don’t.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “Funny, huh? While you look at money as a gift, I look at it as a restriction full of strings attached.”
“How did you rebel?”
“The tattoo was first.”
My brows shot up along with a tingle straight to the tip of my dick. “You have a tattoo?’
She grinned, widely this time. “Yes.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere you’ll ever see.”
“Challenge accepted.”
She grinned, heat sparking in her eyes.
“How else did you rebel?”
“Well, I started running with the wrong crowd.”
“Kenzo?”
“Yes. It was gradual, really. Parties here and there, after football games. That turned into drinking. Other things.”
