And the cause is to trip her into saying something that makes me not like her.
Something that will get through to my dick the next time she does something attractive.
But every time I think I’m close to getting her to slip and tell me something horrible, she says the only thing that could possibly appease me.
It’s not annoying though.
It’s dangerous.
I’m done letting my heart convince me someone might love me and not leave me or betray me.
And it unfortunately knows no other way to be interested in a woman.
It’s all or nothing with me.
I shove away from the doorframe with a grunt. “I’m gonna go watch TV.”
“Which show?”
“Something gory and horrible.” I’m turning on something fluffy that I’d deny watching if anyone ever asked me if I’d seen it. Mostly because of who I’m shipping on the show.
Stupid romantic heart.
But at least it’s safe to ship fictional characters since I only watch the shows where they get their happily ever afters.
“You like popcorn?” she asks. “I learned how to make this amazing cinnamon-sugar popcorn off a food show.”
And there she goes again.
Saying the exact right thing that shouldn’t be the exact right thing but is.
I swallow, studying her closely.
Does she know?
Or is this a coincidence?
She lifts her brows, a silent please answer the question, Rhys.
I clear my throat and break eye contact. “My mom used to make cinnamon-sugar popcorn.”
“So…is that a yes or a no?”
The right answer is no.
If Margot’s cinnamon-sugar popcorn is better than how I remember my mom’s, I’ll hate it. If it’s worse, I’ll hate it.
But I don’t have to eat it, so I just shrug at her. “Whatever you want.”
I head into the living room without waiting for her to decide what she wants, closing up the hide-a-bed and shoving my blanket off the couch in case she does make popcorn.
Being a shithead is my only current defense against how much I like her.
When I met Felice, I was enamored with how smart and successful she was. She was a junior vice president at amarketing firm in Virginia not far from where I was stationed with the Marines, though she had aspirations for opening her own firm someday.
Just like my mom had opened Technique Group with my grandfather.
Grandpa was me—the muscle—but Mom was the brains. She had a knack for seeing through bullshit, and she made a name for herself by finding and hiring disciplined protection agents with good instincts. She worked hard, and she loved me fiercely, and there’s no way I could’ve had a single mom like her and not grow up into a man who had an appreciation for badass women.
