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“We’re going to take you to a nutritionist when we’re both free. You keep fucking up your digestive system, and I’m not going to let you,” he warned.
I didn’t have much to say, so I just agreed. If Dillon had his mind made up on something, there’s no way he’s changing it. We made it to the drive-thru, and there were like two cars in front of us. Inside was empty, and I didn’t feel like going out there, and if Dillon went, he’d cause a scene. People literally lose their brain cells when they see him.
“What are you ordering?”
“Fries,” I answered and shrugged.
He took a deep breath and mumbled something in Latin. I was definitely pissing him off, even though I wasn’t trying to. “I’m not in the mood for your—” he quickly took another breath and restarted his sentence. “Precious, what is your order? It’s our turn, and unless you’re ordering ten servings of fries, I’m not ordering for you. That’s not a meal,” he lectured.
“Big Mac Combo Meal with Sprite, add bacon please and a strawberry shake. Can I get dessert?”
“You can get anything you want, my love.”
“I want cookies too. What are you getting?”
“A chicken sandwich and fries with orange juice.” As plain as orders get, that was his. He doesn’t drink soda nor does he eat unhealthy stuff much.
Mikkel placed our orders, and we got our food, and I was happy. Contrary to popular belief, food makes me very happy.
“Are you good over there?” He asked.
“Yes, but I’m eating too much. Does it bother you?”
“No. I love seeing you eat. It makes me happy.” He placed emphasis on the “me” and smacked a kiss on my cheek. “I took pictures of you earlier and posted them on my story. You’re really pretty.”
My cheeks reddened, and I let out a hearty laugh. I loved him so much. The saying is right, the days ahead will always be better than the last. Dillon’s living proof of that.
We pulled up at the airfield, and Dillon was confused. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell by the way he wrinkled his face and furrowed his eyebrows. I exited the car, and with assistance, I popped the trunk, and the attendants came for our luggage.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re going to the Sorrento Coast in Italy for about three days. Let’s go,” I squealed and grabbed his arm, pulling him into the jet with me. “I have everything packed for you. Your clothes, shoes, laptop, skincare stuff, chargers, and all those things. You just needed to show up, and don’t worry about the cost either. I took care of it.” It felt refreshing to finally be the one spending money on him for a change.
He scooped me into his arms, twirled us around, then carried us into the jet. I’ve never been in one before, and holy fucking shit. It was amazing. I’ve only seen these things in movies, but when you’re dating your own real-life morally grey prince, you tend to experience plenty out-of-this-world moments.
“You’re incredible,” he happily said as we nestled into the seats. The pilot told us earlier that we would be taking off in about three minutes, “and what do you mean by you took care of the cost?”
“Uh, well,” I stuttered, “my last two salaries have been very generous, and I had some savings I was going to use to pay for my college debts, but you paid those off. So I pooled the money together and booked a trip for us,” I explained, but he was not amused.
He sighed. “I appreciate all of this so much, and I’m glad we’re getting a chance to enjoy the world, but I don’t want you spending your savings on me. Keep it for all the things you want to accomplish.”
“I’m not just spending it on you, I’m spending it on us. Just because I’m not as rich as you doesn’t—”
“Babe,” he interjected, “it has nothing to do with who is richer. This trip isn’t cheap. You should’ve at least paid half, then charged the other half to my card, but let’s not argue. We’re going for a romantic getaway, and I appreciate you doing this.”
Translation: I’m going to wire the money to your account and give you a bonus because I appreciate you.
I just rolled my eyes and snuggled against him. It made no sense to prolong that argument because I wouldn’t win. He’d find a million and one ways to prove me wrong.
“Anything for you, sir?” The flight attendant asked. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but I don’t appreciate how she saw the two of us, but she only acknowledged him, and that smile she has on her face isn’t going to work with me.
“Yes, actually,” he said and removed his shades, “Turn the A/C down, Mrs. Xander here doesn’t like the cold, and keep that door separating closed.”
She nodded and made her way out of the section. “You plan on proposing, Xander?”
“Sooner rather than later, precious,” he smirked. “Sooner rather than later.”
Dillon
