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“I’d do it, too,” he says, wanting to prove his masculine capabilities.
I hold on extra tight until we reach the duplex. Down the block, someone is having a party. This area of Tumbling Rock feels wilder. I always thought the crazy parts were in the wooded section, where the Toomey family roams. But I’ve also heard the “homestead” where West lives is filled with crazy folks.
I climb off the Harley and smile at West. “You can’t come inside.”
“I could if you asked me to.”
“It’s too small.”
West’s expression shifts as if he’s remembering a long-ago trauma. “It is tight in there.”
“Yeah, and your parents won’t want a drunk Toomey in their home.”
“You’re not a Toomey,” he insists.
I choose not to argue with him. Having been roundabout-raised by my dad, I know men take a long time to adjust to new information. Gary Toomey is still processing how I don’t like those gooey Easter Peeps treats. He might go to his grave in denial on that one.
West is probably more loosey-goosey about new info, but I’m not in the mood to discuss families. He walks me upstairs so I won’t get lost. I think he’s daft until I realize he just wants to kiss more before letting me leave his side.
Our lips are chapped when we separate with plans to hook up—literally in the fertility region—tomorrow.
