I look at the bed. Then at him. Back at the bed.
It won’t matter. He won’t give up.
I stand with a sigh.
“Fine,” I mutter, throwing the blanket off. “If I die on that bike, I’m haunting you.”
His grin spreads, and he laughs, still not moving. Only when I step toward the closet does he push off the wall. The moment I reach the middle of the room, he closes the distance behind me. I feel his breath on my back.
I lift my head, catching our reflection in the mirror. His hands hover just above my shoulders. His eyes are on me.
That’s when it hits me.
Oh.
I’m wearing nothing but a white tank top and a thong.
I gasp.
“Turn around, psycho,” I shout, spinning my finger in the air.
He laughs, winks at me, and turns slowly. He is enjoying every second.
“And don’t rush me,” I warn, even as I dart for the closet. I grab a pair of tight blue jeans from the chair and shove my legs into them, hopping as I yank them up, fighting to get them over my hips.
“You can turn around,” I say.
As I zip my jeans, he turns around, his eyes scanning my ass. I raise a brow.
“My ass is not yours to see,‘kay,“ I say, smacking my lips.
He chuckles and lifts his eyes back to mine.
“I swear, if you make me fall,” I start.
He holds up two fingers and crosses them, then presses a hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him deeply.
“Liar,” I say, smiling. “Turn around again.”
When he does, I tug my tank top down and grab a yellow shirt from the closet, moving it over my head. There is nothing black in there. Just pink after pink, and this is the only color that isn’t...Pink.
I gag and turn back around.
“Ready?” I ask, grabbing my sneakers and slipping them on.
He pulls out his phone, types, and shoves the screen toward me.
What’s wrong, you don’t like pink?
“The last time I wore pink, I was six,” I say. “So no. Now my choice is black or black, and somehow Catherine decided I would be perfect in pastel colors.”
He laughs, fingers flying across the screen.
You’re right. Yellow is not your color.
I tilt my head, stare at him, blink twice, then shove him lightly as I walk toward the balcony.
“Don’t be an asshole,” I say, sitting on the railing. “Aren’t we going?”
