Page 18 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

I shrug. “For the most part.”

“I sort of like it,” he says as he stops at an intersection.

“Oh really? I never would’ve guessed.” I lift a brow.

A corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re funny.”

“You’re different tonight,” I say, studying him.

“How so?” he asks, his eyes cutting briefly toward me before returning to the road.

“Less serial killer,” I say. “More boy-next-door with tattoos.”

That gets him going. A big laugh leaves him.

“You have a mustache.”

“Wow,” he says. “Hard pivot.”

I shrug. “It was dark last night. The bar, the SUV, my porch. I can actually see you tonight.”

“And?” he says, turning down the main strip of Auburn Heights.

“It’s kind of hot,” I admit. “Ever worn a cowboy hat?”

He shakes his head, laughing. “What is wrong with you? And can I bottle it?”

I smirk and settle back into the seat.

“Alright, let’s get this out of the way,” I say. “How old are you? Like thirty-three? The other server, Sarah, said thirty-five.”

“Thirty-six,” he says, easing the car into a space across from the city park.

I give him a look.

“Oh.”

Another pause.

“Well…shit.”

He rests his forearms on the steering wheel and tilts his head my way.

“Is that a problem, Doll?”

“I mean, when you were graduating high school, I was probably learning how to tie my shoes,” I say. “But no. Totally fine.”

His mouth turns up in a crooked grin.

“What are you, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-four,” I correct him.

“New experience for both of us then,” he says.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says. “I’ve never dated anyone that much younger than me.”