He blinks and turns his face toward mine. His expression is completely blank for a moment, then his lips twitch at one side. “Yep.”
“It doesn’t count if you only just decided.”
“Who said I just decided?”
“The vacant look on your face.”
“I was surprised you asked.”
“Of course I asked. I’m a female. Why do you think you can get things past me?”
“Oh, shut up.” He pushes me down by the shoulders. “Just yes or no, princess. It’s not a hard question.”
“You never asked me a question!”
“I—” He shuts his mouth. “Fine. Sofie, will you go to dinner with me tonight, please?”
I chew the inside of my lip. I wasn’t being flippant about last time. And although our trip to the store was relatively uneventful, unless you count the magazine cover of us kissing the next day, I’m still wary.
While the media vultures are not as obsessive as they were before Dirty B.’s manager confirmed the “story,” they’re still watching us like hawks in case we bring Mila out. As it is, we ferry her between our houses using the woods, gambling no one will be in them.
But I don’t want to hide.
“Why?” I eye him, standing up.
“Why what? Am I asking you to dinner?”
“No. Why are you staring at me? Obviously.”
He reaches forward and tugs me toward him. His hands curl around the backs of my thighs, holding me in, and I rest my hands on his shoulders. I gaze down at him, my eyes meeting his indigo blue ones as he tilts his face up toward me.
“I want us to talk. Somewhere we have to behave.” His lips curve suggestively.
I ignore that little pitter-patter my heart does.
My eyes run over his face, his shoulders, his upper body. The way his eyes shine when he looks at me. The way his biceps flex when his fingers twitch. The way his jaw curves perfectly, that same light, rough stubble dusting across it.
I lift a hand and run my thumb across it the way I’ve wanted to since we met again. “Talk? About what?”
He dips his face and kisses my palm. “Everything.”
What am I doing?
Ever since Phil came to collect Mila after her dinner, I’ve asked myself that question ten millions times too many. The red dress that flares out at my hips looks too much. The slight curl in my hair looks too fancy. The black mascara coating my lashes looks too try-hard.
The black heels certainly look like they’re out of place.
It’s been so long since I got dressed up that it feels wrong. I want to shove my hair into a messy twist, swap the heels for bare feet and the dress for shorts and a tank.
At the same time, it feels right. It feels a little like Sofie. Sofie the person, not Sofie the mom.
I’m poking at my eyelashes with the mascara wand again just as Conner knocks and opens the front door.
“Sof?” The door shuts again.
“Two seconds.”
Shit. What does one even do on a second first date?
Is this even a first date?
He said he wanted to talk. Is it a talking date? A friend date? A parent date? A romantic date?
Good grief. I pushed his baby out of my vagina and I’m worrying about going for dinner with him.
I also fucked him two days ago, for the second time in just under three weeks, so I think we can safely say this isn’t a friend or parent date.
I grab my purse from my bed and, after hovering in front of the mirror and wincing one last time, I leave my room.
“You take so long to get ready,” he grumbles, walking upstairs.
“I’ve been ready for ages,” I admit, stopping when he reaches the top.
He looks up. He stops. He swallows. He reaches for me. He drops his hand.
My heart thuds in my chest. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, the first couple of buttons undone. It’s tucked into dark-wash jeans, and below that, shoes. Like, real shoes. Not sneakers.
“Excuse me, gorgeous?” he says, clearing his throat. “Have you seen Sofie?”
I step forward and bat his arm with my purse. He grins and flattens his hand against my back.
“Hell, you look beautiful,” he whispers, sincerity and honesty clear in his voice. “I don’t think dinner is a good idea anymore.”
“Shut up,” I reply softly. “You made me get dressed up, so we’re going.” I shove at his chest.
“Okay, okay. Just . . . don’t blame me if I’ve gotta give black eyes to men who look at you, okay?”
“You’re not scary, Conner.”
He holds the front door open for me. “Yeah? Tell that to Tate. He looked pretty shit up the other night.”
“What did you do to him?”
He guides me toward the truck, and I do my best to ignore the flashing of the cameras. And the shouting. Why always with the shouting?
“I almost punched him,” he explains.
“Well, yes, I got that much. But why?”
Conner meets my eyes, his hand resting on the truck door. “He was talkin’ shit about you. He doesn’t get to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re mine.” He yanks the door open. “That ain’t gonna change. I’m always gonna protect you, Sof, even if it’s from my brother.”
He lifts me up and onto my seat, this time not banging my head on the top of the door. I swing around properly and swallow as he walks around the truck. Warmth is flooding through me at those words, but it’s quickly chilled by the sight of the media rushing to their cars and trucks and vans.
“I deserve it,” I say softly as Conner gets in.
He rests his forearm on the steering wheel and looks at me. His dark eyes are so intense they’re sending chills across my skin. “The only person who gets to talk shit to you about what you did is me.”
“So it’s okay for you but not for him?”
“Yep,” he says, reversing. “Because I have the balls to say it to your face and not behind your back.”
And because you did it to me. His unspoken words hang in the air between us, heavy.
Well, isn’t this a great fucking start to a date.
I put my hand on the steering wheel lightly, and he pauses at the end of the driveway.
“Why’re we botherin’?” I whisper. “We’re already fighting, Con.”
He sets my hand back on my lap and rolls his shoulder. He reverses back onto the road and says, “Then brace yourself, princess, because that probably means I’ll have to fuck you hard later.”