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A cocky smirk plays at his lips. “Chloe, while I appreciate you checking me out, unless you plan on doing something about it, let’s not make my dick hard, okay?”
It takes me a moment to pull myself together, and I gesture to the door. “If breakfast is what you want, come on in. There are Cheerios and Pop-Tarts in my pantry. Have at it.”
Here I go again, being stupid.
Who invites their enemy into their homeagain?
People in horror movies who wind up murdered—that’s who.
“As much as I’d love to come in and have you serve me breakfast—” he begins.
“Serve?” I interrupt with a snort. “I’d throw it to you and walk out the door.”
My answer further amuses him. “Shirley’s Diner. I can drive us, or you can meet me there in five.”
I feign annoyance.
He grins.
“Fine,” I deadpan. “Thirty minutes. One pancake.”
“Forty minutes.Twopancakes.”
“Jesus. Just fucking follow me.” I yell his name to stop him, and he turns to leave.
“Decide on a better offer, one involving us in your bed?” he asks with a raised brow.
“You wish. Where are my keys?”
“I might know the answer to your question.”
“Are you kidding me?” I screech. “You jacked my keys?”
“Technically, you gave them to me, but I kept them to lock your door on my way out. You should thank me for eliminating the risk of you being executed in your sleep.”
I push my open palm his way. “Hand them over.”
He pats the pocket by his groin, and I notice the outline of keys underneath the fabric. “I’d prefer if you grabbed them. The pockets are tiny, so smaller hands would do better to rescue them.”
I take a deep breath. “The longer you play your games, the shorter time we spend at breakfast. Choose your battles, Lane.”
My mouth waters at the idea of going forward and startling him by grabbing my keys. I’d love to watch his reaction if I did reach in, graze his cock, and then pull them out slowly and torturously.
I don’t though because not only am I a chickenshit, but he also drags them out and dumps them in my hand seconds later.
“I hope you bring your appetite.” He shifts around and strides to his new Jeep.
I further check him out and shrug with no shame before walking to my car.
* * *
Shirley’s Dineris packed with people stuffing their stomachs with every breakfast food imaginable. The diner has been a staple here for longer than I’ve been alive. Blue Beech, Iowa, is a small town where everybody knows everybody. Most residents reside in town, in comfortable neighborhoods void of dilapidated homes, or are lucky to own acres of land.
Me? I was raised on the outskirts, given the name West Side Trash decades ago. There’s no cute ’50s-themed diner within walking distance of the west side. It’s at least a mile walk anywhere—the school, Town Square, any stores.
I pledged I’d move from the west side trailer park I had grown up in when I made enough money. I did. Unfortunately, my sister and mother refuse to do the same. They both live in the same run-down double-wide with my niece and nephew. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t judge people from there, but it’s where most of the crime takes place.
Shirley gives Kyle a grin when we walk in and seats us, muttering something about giving us his favorite booth.
