Page 97 of Filthy Little Lies

I stand at the picnic table like a fucking fool, watching her hurry out of the park and across the street. My fingers itch to wrap around her hair. My cock aches to dive into her warmth, and my mouth tingles with need to kiss her. But I will deprive myself of all of those things if it means making her happy.

I’m halfway back to my car when a text message comes through my phone.

I’ll make you dinner. My place tomorrow night, seven. ~S

CHAPTER 29

Savvy

My boobs ache. It could be the pregnancy, or it could be the amount of time I’ve been fantasizing about having Gabriel’s hands on them all day.

He’d spent three hours at the diner this morning drinking coffee and making phone calls. From what little I heard, the new distribution center broke ground. Other bits and pieces were of things I didn’t understand and probably shouldn’t.

On his way out, he left another hundred-dollar tip and stopped to kiss my cheek. Marie’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor, and my face almost burst into flames.

It had been sweet. Tender. Nothing like him, but exactly like him at the same time.

The oven beeps, signaling the lasagna I made is ready. As I pull it out, my phone rings from where I’m charging it on the counter.

“Hello?” I answer through the speakerphone.

“You’re having dinner with him?” Cassie all but yells through the phone. “What happened to worrying about your life?”

“You got my text.” I grab the bowl of salad from the fridge and bring it to the kitchen table. It’s small and will only fit us and the lasagna, but I’ve draped a tablecloth over it and a single candle as a centerpiece.

“Yes, I got it. The devil has come back down to Georgia.”

“Funny.” There’s a hard knock on the door. “He’s here. I gotta go.”

“Call me when he leaves!” she yells just before I end the call.

“Come in,” I call out and the door opens immediately.

“You don’t even check to see who it is?” He demands as soon as he’s inside. The door rattles when he closes it too hard.

He’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans that fit him like they were made specifically for him and a dark gray button-down with the sleeves rolled twice at the wrists. He’s trimmed his beard, and the warm spice of his aftershave easily fills the small space of my studio apartment.

“I knew it was you,” I say hooking my hand on my hip. “Who else would it be? I don’t think murderers knock.”

“They do if they want the person inside to open the door for them. Then they don’t have to chase them through the apartment and leave all of their DNA around.”

I deadpan. “It’s not normal that you know things like that.”

“Lock your doors.” He points at the bolt then flicks it. “These don’t work if you don’t use them.”

“You’re being bossy, and you’ve only been here three seconds.”

He pauses, like he’s contemplating changing course. I don’t want him to. I’ve missed this about him. It’s been nice the past few days with his willingness to go slow, and he’s shown more patience than I thought he could ever possess.

But I miss this part.

Maybe it’s the hormones.

“I told you, I’ll always keep you safe. Even from yourself.” He stalks toward me, eyeing the lasagna sitting on the table. “You cooked.”

“I did invite you to dinner.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t realize you could cook.” He half smiles.