Page 43 of Lawless Rivals

I snort and lift the mug. “It already is. I’m wearing your clothes and sleeping in your bed.”

Before he can answer, a loud knock hits the front door.

Saint exhales and shoves his chair back as he stands, all height and muscle and a presence that captures my attention whether I want to stare or not.

He crosses to the front door, unlocks it, and opens it just wide enough to step through. Rather than invite whoever it is inside, he walks out and closes the door behind him.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I move before I think better of it, padding to the window and peering out onto the porch.

There’s a woman with a black ponytail and a box-fit wax jacket standing with her back to the cabin. Her tight breeches are tucked into dirty field boots, and she stands close to him.

When Saint takes a bag from her, she jabs a finger at his chest, her body pitched forward like she’s mid-argument.

He listens, head tipped, expression unbothered. After a few minutes, he offers her a full grin that flashes teeth and warmth and has my fists clenching.

He leans down and kisses her cheek, then steps around her and heads toward the door.

I hurry back to the table, chair scraping as I sit and pick up my mug like I’ve been there the whole time.

Saint locks the door behind him and comes back to the table, but he doesn’t sit. He stays standing and sets the bag down between us.

“That’s for you.”

I frown at the supermarket logo stretched across the plastic. “What is it?”

He drifts toward the counter, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one free, and lights it. The first drag is a slow inhale.

“Women’s clothes,” he says, smoke leaving his mouth on the word.

My blood moves through me faster. I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I’d never be seen dead in your girlfriend’s clothes.

Saint leans against the counter. “That’s a strange way to put it.”

“You know exactly what I mean.” I push my chair back and stand. “I’m not doing this.”

“Harrington.”

I take another step.

“Get changed.”

I pivot to face him, hands fisted by my sides. “No way. First, I’ll dress like her, then you’ll start wishing I was her…then you’ll pretend I am her.”

He exhales smoke and sighs, more tired than amused. “Oh, believe me, Harrington, you’re one of a kind. There’s no mistaking you for anyone else.”

He straightens, leaving the cigarette hugged between his lips and takes a confident step toward me.

“So we can do this your way,” he adds, “or you can keep arguing and we’ll see how that goes for ya.”

When he draws on the cigarette, holds my gaze, and exhales, my pulse kicks.

Chapter 12

Keira

“I’m not wearing her clothes,” I say again, slower this time to get my point across.

Saint’s eyes stay fixed on me with that unreadable calmness of his that makes my skin prickle.