I don’t even let my head wander, I just say what I want. I want this night to continue. With him.
I shrug, giving him a nod of approval.
He goes back to his phone and orders the ride, dropping it onto the table when he’s done. “So, out of ten, how was this date?”
My eyes are a bit heavy as I smile over at him. “You want me to rate it?”
“Still the best date you’ve ever been on?”
“By a mile,” I tell him, snatching another fry. “Tens across the board. Thank you, boyfriend.”
He studies my face, and there is that gentle type of smile that only hits his mouth every so often. “You’re very welcome, girlfriend. I meant what I said, alright?”
He reaches across the table and takes my free hand. The one without the fries in it.
“I’ll take care of you, okay?” he says, his thumb brushing my hand. “So, stop worrying about everything for a bit. Try to stop stressing out about the big things. I’ve got you now.”
I swallow my fry, but it doesn’t go down as easily as the last. I glance at our hands, then back up at those stupidly blueeyes. The thought runs through my head for the tenth time this week. I feel safe with him. So damn safe.
“I know I have much less to offer you,” I say quietly, turning my hand in his. I give it a little squeeze. “But I’ve got you too.”
CHAPTER FORTY
arden
Carter grumblessome nonsense and then falls down next to me on the couch. He hands me a bottle of water, letting out a deep and weighted breath. By the way he winces and burps a bit, I’m pretty certain that the wine is starting to settle in his stomach, and it isn’t settling well.
I nuzzle into the pillows, doing much better than the enormous guy beside me. When he kicks his legs onto the couch and places them on my lap, I don’t even complain. I just crack open my water bottle and take a greedy sip.
Being wine drunk isn’t for the weak. The hangovers are criminal, too. I might love red wine more than I love a lot of things, but I’ve suffered deeply because of that love. I don’t pretend like I’m above the wine curse. It is a real thing. It takes out the best of us.
“You don’t look too hot, Bub,” I tut, patting his shins.
“I don’t feel too hot, Bub,” he mutters, draping his arm over his eyes.
“Here,” I say, scuffling forward as much as I can with hislegs on my lap. I tap his chest a couple of times until he drops his arm and cracks open his eyes. “Open.”
“You’ve been saying that a lot to me lately.”
“What?” I ask, but he’s opening his mouth like the obedient golden retriever that he definitely isnot.No. Carter Forkerro is a doberman. Or a Kangal Shepherd. Something protective and loyal. Someone who will guard you with his life.
God bless the golden retrievers of the world, but they’re going to befriend the robber who breaks into your house while the doberman bares its teeth the second they smell them.
I tip the water into his mouth, my eyes dropping to his throat as he swallows.
God, this is definitely the wine curse on my part, too. It just affects me differently. I want to stare at the column of his throat for the next ten minutes, and that’s not a sane thought.
When I’m satisfied with how much he’s drunk, I lean back in my spot.
“First breakfast and now the water. I feel like a dog sometimes.”
A laugh explodes out of me because I am growing convinced that he knows my thoughts better than I do. I pat his legs again, looking over at his face, eyes closed and suffering.
“You’re a good boy, though. The best pup.”
He sniffs a laugh. “Do I get a treat?”
“What would you like?”
