Page 55 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

“That one comes off just as easily,” he calls behind me.

I keep walking. I duck into the chip aisle, reaching for Doritos, when his hand wraps around my waist and pulls me back against him. His mouth brushes my ear.

“Embarrassed, Doll?”

I snort. “Please. You’re just a perv.”

“You know that’s not true,” he murmurs, pulling me tighter.

I hate that my body relaxes into him. I lean back, just a little.

“Fine,” I say. “You’re not a perv.”

I toss the chips into the cart.

“What snacks do you want?” I ask him.

“You like Fruit Roll-Ups?”

I turn. “Fruit Roll-Ups?”

“What? They’re good. Beatrice used to buy them behind my mom’s back.”

I smile because now I’m picturing a tiny version of him sneaking sugar in that big ass estate of his.

“You spent a lot of time with her growing up?” I ask, pulling the cart into the next aisle.

“Tons. My parents traveled a lot. I love them, but they weren’t around much. When they were, it was all galas and dinner parties.”

He leans on the cart. I go up next to him and bump his hip with mine.

“Let’s get some Fruit Roll-Ups then.”

Once we’re back at my house and get everything inside, I dig through the bags and toss a t-shirt and sweatpants across the counter.

“You like this better than what I’m wearing?” he asks, holding them up.

I tilt my head, considering him for a second.

“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “I’m a big fan of the ‘not intimidatingly overdressed in my kitchen’ look.”

He shakes his head, stepping closer as he sets the clothes on the counter beside me.

“Plus,” I say, nudging his arm with mine, “I can’t cuddle on the couch with a man wearing a five-hundred-dollar suit.”

His hand braces on the counter next to me, boxing me in just slightly.

“More like five thousand.”

I tilt my head, staring up at him, and groan. “I hate you.”

He kisses my temple and starts down the hall, already peeling off his jacket.

“As long as I’m allowed to stay, I’m okay with that.”

I roll my eyes and grab the pizza rolls out of the bag. The ones he insisted on buying, because apparently I’m not allowed to spend my money anymore.

His exact words at the register—low, firm, and right in my ear, “Put your fucking card away.”