Page 97 of Blacklist

“Bullshit!”

“Why do you think I finally returned to Nashville?” I dare a glance at her and wish I hadn’t. She’s silhouetted against the window, city lights painting her hair with glowing neon. She’s the answer to my own question.

Adair leans over the console between us, her palm dropping between my legs. Her chin rests on my shoulder. “I thought you came back for me.”

“I thought we were going to pretend.” I pull into the restaurant’s parking lot. I lift her hand from my lap, hoping it doesn’t turn her sweet mood sour. “We’re here.”

Owing to the alcohol content in her bloodstream and the neon skillet blinking orange flames on the sign, she’s too distracted to be offended. She’s the one always drawing boundary lines, but it didn’t take much to blur them. I’d known that much bourbon would, but there’s no glory in taking advantage of a situation like this. She lowered her guard tonight, proving she isn’t being completely honest with anyone. Not even herself. Adair never has been. But the most action she’s getting out

of me is whatever she orders off the menu inside.

She leans against me, using my body as a prop, while she studies her options. Finally, she groans. “You know what I like.”

“Yes, I do, Lucky,” I say darkly. Her breath hitches for a moment and suddenly there’s no one else in the world. I force myself to return my attention to ordering food.

She doesn’t object when I order one of damn near everything. We cozy up in a corner booth, sitting close to one another because I’m afraid she’ll fall out of her seat if I don’t put myself between her and open air. A comfortable familiarity threatens to overwhelm me with my arm around her. It’s sentimentality—nothing more. When the food arrives, Adair eats like she used to back in college.

“Glad to see you still have an appetite,” I say.

“I know. I’m never giving up carbs.” She reaches back and pats her ample rear. “But it’s catching up to me.”

“I like it,” I say honestly.

She screws up her nose as she dredges a fry in the ketchup on my plate. “Admit it, I don’t have the body I used to have.”

There’s no way we’d be having this conversation if she were sober. That means she’s probably not going to remember it in the morning, so there’s no harm in being honest with her.

“I did love it,” I admit. “But now?”

“I knew it,” she says with a sigh, shoving her plate away and looking defeated.

I grip her chin and tilt her face toward mine. “Now? I want to worship it.”

Her eyes flutter open in surprise. “Really?”

“You were hot before. Now you’re a goddess.”

“That’s not a commonly held belief,” she says. “The last guy I dated…”

“What?”

“He told me that I needed to go on a diet,” she confesses.

“And you believed that dick?” I ask. I wish the guy was here right now so I could wring his neck until he lost a little weight of his own.

“I dumped him,” she says brightly. “Nothing comes between me and my French fries.”

“Or my French fries, it seems.”

“I’m adding to my figure,” she says, swiping another from me. “I’m told you prefer me curvy.”

I draw her closer. “I do.”

“Not that it matters,” she hedges, daring another fluttering glance at me. “Because we’re not sleeping together.”

“No, we’re not,” I confirm.

“Honestly, that seems like a bit of a loss,” she says.