He chuckles and holds up two boxes. “Which pasta?”
“Whichever is cheapest?”
“Money isn’t an issue, Sunny.”
It's at this moment I’m sucker punched by the reality of who Tyler is, and the power he holds. He’s important. He’s needed. He’s powerful. He’s a goddamn hitman. He’ll own that company one day and he’s killed people to do it. And here I am, shamelessly flirting with him over boxed pasta. A nobody girl on the run from a man who may not even be chasing her.
“I don’t know, aren’t you the cook?”
Dropping his arms, he tilts his head. “Sunny?”
“Tyler?” I cross my arms.
“You’re cute when you’re annoyed,” he comments and thenhe kisses my fucking nose. “You’re right, we need pasta made from scratch.” He places the boxes back.
I stand still, clutching my coffee cup so tightly I dent it. Still feeling the effects of his lips on my skin ripple through my body.
I hate that I like you, Tyler.
“Red sauce or white sauce?” he asks.
“Well, which goes better with champagne?” I swallow hard when I take a glance around and notice people are watching us. Noticing he’s with me,a nobody. Tyler seems oblivious or just down right doesn’t care. I know it’s the latter.
“Honestly, I think white sauce would complement champagne more.” He tosses cheese and heavy cream into the cart.
“I’ll trust your judgment.” I look at the contents in the cart.
He comes up behind me, bracing the cart so his chest is pressed to my back. The familiar scent of him encases me, only somewhat calming my frantic heart.
They see us, Tyler.
“It’s good to know you trust me,” he whispers low in my ear.
“Tyler, people know you here. They know who you are, and they’re watching.” I peer around again. They aren’tsupposedto know.
He removes himself from me, freeing me from the cage of his arms. “So?” he says, inspecting what looks like a block of cheese and then tosses it in the cart. “I don’t care. So why should you?” He crosses his arms over his chest, making his biceps even more prominent now. It’s hard to not notice these details of him when they are screaming at me.
“Aren’t you worried they will say something?”
“To who? My parents? Sunny, you and I both know I don’t care about my parent’s opinions. I’m twenty-nine years old. I don’t need mommy and daddy's approval.” He tosses another item into the cart. “I’m a regular in this store. That’s the only reason why they know me. It’s not like they know who I am and even if they did, I don’t give a fuck. My reputation would be the one thing to deter them.”
I feel his large, calloused hand lace into mine. Looking up, I watch as he brings my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to it. “See? I don’t give a shit.”
Which would've been fine, except he doesn’t let go. He still clings to my hand, our fingers still laced together as we walk through the store.
I don’t stop him, either. I keep my hand in his, unaware of how to let go because it feels too good.
It’s kind of funny, everything we’ve done intimately was behind closed doors, in the middle of the night without anyone knowing — to this.
We never really explored this portion of our relationship. The small, flirty, butterflies in your belly gestures such as hand holding in public.
We aren’t supposed to. We shouldn’t.
We are supposed to be friends with benefits. Only fulfilling one another’s sexual desires behind closed doors, despite the fact we haven’t even had sex yet. Not kisses and hand holding and coffee.
Yet, I don’t remove my hand from his.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
