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“You should be.”

He watches me come closer. “I'm warning you.”

“About what?”

I stop directly in front of him and slide my hands up his chest.

His eyes narrow.

I rise onto my toes. “Come here, Hot Lips.”

His expression changes.

Apparently he doesn't hate it quite as much when I say it.

His hand settles on my waist. “Say it again.”

My stomach flips. I smile against his mouth. “Hot Lips.”

His other hand closes around the back of my neck. “I fucking hate Beckett.”

“You should probably thank him.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

Then he kisses me.

46

ROMAN

Blackridge looks exactly like the kind of place Smoke would choose to live.

It’s older than Hollow Creek. Darker.

Brick storefronts line the main street, most of them built close enough together that the upper floors nearly block the afternoon sun. A church steeple rises above the rooftops in the distance, and narrow side streets disappear between buildings that look like they've been standing here for a hundred years.

Callie points out the passenger window. “Oh, that place is cute.”

I glance over at the bookstore. “We're not stopping.”

“I didn't ask.”

“You were about to.”

She takes another sip of coffee from the fucking THANKFUL mug. I can’t believe she brought it with her. Mine is sitting on the kitchen counter at home. Where it will remain until I throw it in the trash. Probably.

“You know,” she says, “Blackridge has a really cool downtown.”

“We're not sightseeing.”

“I know.”

“We're going to your cousin's garage, talking to him, and leaving.”

“Sure.”

“You stay with me.”