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“You don’t even want kids.”
“Now that I have them—” His phone chimed. He checked it and frowned. “Change of plan.”
“Patrick Whitley, if you made me put on these shoes—”
“I didn’t make you do anything.Youchose to wear them. For me.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“This is not a date.”
He hailed a cab.
“Of course it’s not. That would entail at least one of us liking the other. We both know that’s not the case.” He held open the back door for me and I slid inside.
“We’re going back the way we came from. Did you do this on purpose? Make me walk because you know my feet are swollen—”
“They are? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why would I tell you?”
“Because I need to know these things.”
“You’re insane.”
“That’s better than being an ass.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No.”
“Am I going to like where we’re going?”
He tensed. “Not really certain.”
“Patrick . . .”
He reached around Blake and took my hand in his. “Can you promise me something?”
“What?”
“That no matter how pissed off you get, you will bottle it up, put the lid on tight, and not let it out until we get home.”
“Why did I agree to this?” I asked to the ceiling.
“Because even though you hate me, you can’t help but want to hang out. Admit it. I’m fascinating.”
He was. But I wouldn’t tell him that. Ever.
“Annoying. An attention hog.”
“Insanely attractive. Irresistible.”
“Pompous.”
“Charming.”
“Where are we going?” I lamented, a little scared and a little excited. With Patrick there was no telling.
