Page 87 of Ridin’ Dirty

“For fuck’s sake, you act like there’s no margin of error here.”

“Margin of error? Is that what Cherry was?”

His glower intensified.

“You’re gonna have to let that one go.”

I leaned closer, now feeling the opposite of lighthearted myself.

“I wish that was our only issue. You’re never home. We barely speak. I don’t know a ton about marriage, but I know it requires you to be around. Instead, you’re just the guy calling all the shots. And I’m supposed to be—I don’t even know! Am I a roommate? Am I a fuck buddy? Or⁠—”

“This isn’t Leave it to Beaver.”

“I don’t even know what that means!” I argued.

“It means I’m more sinner than saint, and whatever this is between us came at a very inconvenient time. But I don’t have to be sittin’ here across from you. I don’t have to play nice. Hell, I didn’t even have to marry you to keep you quiet—but those blue eyes and fuckin’ red lips make me want to stop second guessing every impulsive move I made five days ago just to see where this goes.

“But we won’t get the hell out of the parkin’ lot if you don’t give it a chance, be on this date, and stop doubting my motives. I’m not playin’ games with you, angel. So, you tell me. How’s this gonna go?”

My pulse was racing, and my breaths were coming fast and shallow as I stared into his dark green eyes. I wasn’t afraid or intimidated. On the contrary, I was on the verge of being aroused.

He hadn’t declared his love for me. He didn’t even really confirm what he thought we were doing—but he did want to explore it. That he made abundantly clear.

‘I’m not playin’ games with you, angel.’

I no longer cared why he called me that.

I just didn’t want him to stop.

Sensing his question was more of a rhetorical challenge than a statement requiring an answer, I decided to follow his lead and get on with our date.

“Why don’t you drink coffee?” I inquired.

He stared at me for a long time, like he needed a few seconds to register what I was doing, and then I saw it as his shoulders relaxed.

“Tastes like dirt.”

This made me smile.

“Okay. I can see why you might think that if you drank it black. But a little cream or sugar does wonders.”

“Yeah. Sure does. Makes the dirt taste watered down and sweet.”

Laughing, I pressed, “But you’ll drink tea? That’s just as natural as coffee.”

“Don’t touch that stuff, either.”

I tilted my head in confusion. “You have a tea kettle. It sits on your stove all the time.”

“Hmm,” he grunted his understanding. “That was my mom’s. It’s the only thing of hers I brought when I moved up here.”

“Oh,” I whispered. “Was she a big tea drinker?”

“Not so much when I was a kid, but after her diagnosis—yeah. Made her more than a few cups. Sometimes, it was the only thing I could do to cheer her up.”

Damn, I thought, sitting back in my chair.

Another soft spot.