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Another nod to my cell, gripped so tightly in my lap I was surprised the screen hadn’t shattered. Well, if it did, I couldn’t use it, and then I could stop thinking about this fucking text I needed to send.
Bonus.
“AndI’mthinking that Fox is charming, and he’s made Billie Rose laugh more than once,” he said quietly. “Which is why I’m also thinking that you should let him take a crack.”
I clenched my hand tighter, grit my teeth together, and stared at Ry.
I knew he’d back off if I asked—verbally, with my eyes, with my fists.
But…something needed to change.
I held the cell back out at Fox.
Who looked at me with uncharacteristic solemnity. “On a scale of one to five, how important is this to you?”
I forced my fingers to unlock, to let him have the device, communicating with my eyes the answer to that question.
“Right,” he muttered. “About seven hundred and fifty million.”
Then he bent his head, stared at the screen for long moments.
Then—because he was Fox and the fucker couldn’t let one interaction pass without cracking a joke—he kept his bent, but lifted his eyes so they’d connected with mine, and they were sparkling with humor.
Fucker.
“So, just to confirm, you’re saying this is important.”
“Give it back to me,” I snapped, reaching for my phone, but Fox, for as big as he was, as strong and bulky, he was also quick, skirting around my hand and sliding into the seat behind and diagonal to me—close enough to continue to give me shit, but far enough away that I couldn’t reach him without making a scene.
I repeat,fucker.
“Just making sure I understand the parameters,” he drawled.
Murder. Death. Kill.
I raised my brows at Ryan, added dismemberment and castration to my nonverbal threats.
Ry just reclined back against the window, smirking at me from across the row, glancing between the gap in the seats and watching Fox.
Which was when I fully processed everything.
Fox had my cell.
Foxwas going to text Billie.
Fuck it. I needed to see this.
I slid across the aisle, bouncing and weaving as the bus continued in motion, avoiding glancing toward the front and seeing if we’d gathered any attention—either from Coach or from our driver, Ronnie, and finding we hadn’t.
Not yet anyway.
But with Fox…one never knew.
“What’s something you like about her?” Fox asked, fingers moving on the screen, as though he’d always known I was going to end up here—pressed thigh to thigh with him.
Andthat—the whole thigh-to-thigh pressing situation—sounded like something that Billie Rose and Bailey and Dessie would read for their “book club.”
I’d heard enough about their books to know that they read some freaky shit—not that I was complaining about the way that Billie implemented what she’d learned from those books in the bedroom.
