"Because it's true!" I flip open the visor, checking my makeup in the mirror. My eyeliner is still sharp enough to kill a man, lips still that perfect deep red.
When I look over, Ramsey's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with heat. He clears his throat and climbs out, circling around to my side before I can even reach for the handle.
He swings my door open, standing there like some badass chauffeur.
"I feel like such a fucking badass right now," I laugh, sliding out past him. "Like a mini-Reagan."
Something shifts in his expression. His hand catches my wrist, stopping me.
"You're not mini-anything," he says, voice low and firm. "You're you, Reese. Your own fucking person." His thumb brushes against my pulse point. "And a badass in your own right."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight.
"Now c'mon," he continues, letting go of my wrist to slam the door shut. "Let me go buy you some overpriced fucking pretzel and popcorn and all the fucking merch you want."
I actually squeal, grabbing his arm. "Really? Even the hoodie? It's like seventy bucks."
"Did I fucking stutter?" He raises an eyebrow, but there's that smile again, the one that transforms his whole face. "Whatever you want, it's yours."
"You're going to fucking regret saying that," I warn, already dragging him toward the entrance.
"Doubt it," he mutters, so quietly I almost miss it.
Inside, the venue is already packed, bodies pressed together in anticipation. The air smells like beer and sweat and excitement. Ramsey keeps his hand on the small of my back as we weave through the crowd, that possessive touch sending little sparks up my spine.
The merch table is packed with sweaty bodies, but Ramsey's height gives him an advantage. He towers over most of the crowd, his shoulders creating a path for me to follow in his wake.
"Holy shit," I breathe when we finally reach the front. The display is fucking glorious. T-shirts with their signature skull-and-lightning design, hoodies in black and blood red, limited edition tumblers that change color.
"What do you want?" Ramsey asks, his wallet already out.
"Um, maybe the black hoodie?" I point hesitantly. "And?—"
"We'll take two of each hoodie," Ramsey tells the guybehind the counter, cutting me off. "The crew neck too. And give me two of each of those t-shirts also. Matter of fact, two of literally everything. Size medium, she likes it comfy."
My jaw drops. "Rams, what the fuck?"
He ignores me, continuing to point. "The messenger bag too. And that tumbler—is that limited edition? Yeah, we'll take that."
"That's going to be like almost a grand, I think," I hiss, tugging at his arm.
He glances down at me, eyebrow raised. "And?"
The merch guy starts piling everything on the counter—two different hoodies in multiple sizes, a crew neck, five different t-shirt styles, the bag, the fucking tumbler. Ramsey doesn't even blink when the total comes up. He just hands over his card like it's nothing.
"You're fucking insane," I tell him as the guy bags everything up.
"You mentioned that before," he says, lips quirking. By the time we're done, Ramsey's arms are loaded with bags, and I'm still standing there in shock. His biceps flex with the weight, and I have to force myself not to stare at how the veins pop along his forearms.
"C'mon," he says, nodding toward the exit. "Let's go drop this shit in the truck before the opener starts."
I follow him through the crowd, watching his broad back as he effortlessly carries what must be fifty pounds.
"You know I'm never going to be able to pay you back for all this," I say when we reach the parking lot.
"Who asked you to?" He pops the back of his truck open,tossing the bags inside. "It's a fucking gift, Reese. Just say thank you and move on."
"Thank you," I say softly, and something in his expression shifts.
