Page 88 of The Casanova Complex

I grin against her lips, shrugging. “I dunno. I kind of like the delayed grati⁠—”

Merritt slams her lips on mine, swallowing down the words, kissing me instead. Her hands trail up my chest and around to my nape, where her fingers thread into my hair and tighten until I’m groaning.

She tastes like she’s been eating whatever she’s spent all day baking, something with cinnamon and vanilla, and I swear I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything sweeter in my life.

Her tongue pushes past my lips and sweeps over mine, my fingers tightening on her waist, no doubt making little indentations in her pale, creamy skin.

And then… the porch light cuts off above our heads.

A second later, it flicks back on. And then off yet again, and I realize what’s happening.

Oh fuck.

I tear my mouth away and pull back, my eyes wide with panic surging through me.

Merritt, on the other hand, looks thoroughly kissed. Her lips slightly swollen, her eyes heavy-lidded and heated. Not in the least bit worried that her dad’s likely on the other side of the door, flicking the porch light at us because we’re making out on his front steps.

She just laughs.

Laughs.

A sense of full-body, mortifying dread and pure horror is rushing through me, and she’s laughing like it’s nothing.

Her forehead falls to the center of my chest, and she giggles, shaking her head when the light continues to flick on and off, on and off, on and fucking off.

“Okay, Dad, I got it!” she yells, dropping her head back on her shoulders and staring up at the light fixture above us.

“He’s going to kill me.” I squeak.

“No, he’s not,” Merritt murmurs.

“I might!” comes from the other side of the door, and I only barely hold back a groan.

I’m gonna die tonight. Which, actually, might end up being a reprieve. I’m less worried about my imminent death and more so that I need this man to like me because I like his daughter.

So much.

Merritt rolls her eyes and steps back, only to grab my hand and pull me through the front door.

Directly into the line of fire.

“Relax. It’s going to be fiiiiine.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MERRITT

Bennett does not, in fact, relax until we’re halfway through dinner.

I tried to reassure him that my dad wasn’t going to kill him and that he’s worried for nothing.

That we’re just hanging out, having Thanksgiving dinner, very casual, very laid-back.

But he’s spent the last twenty minutes completely rigid, his spine so straight I’m worried it might snap in the chair beside me, answering Dad’s questions with polite, respectful answers and pushing his food around his plate with a fork.

It’s unlike him to be so nervous, and it’s honestly kind of adorable that this is what he’s nervous about. I’ve never seen him be anything other than calm, collected, and confident in all the times we’ve been together.

Who knew that it would take meeting my dad to make the man lose his cocky, self-assured attitude?