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“Yes, I do. I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he says.
My body trembles again, but not from the cold.
“But the weather was warmer earlier,” I inform him. Are we seriously talking about the weather right now? This is why all my Tinder dates end awkwardly.
“It’s not about the heat,” he mutters.
“What-what was it about?” I stutter, unsure if I want to know the answer.
“You come to a fish fry in a dress like that, and you expect me to not have a reaction? You expect me to not have the urge to cover your skin?”
I swallow and try to sound impudent and sassy, but it sounds so fake that it’s embarrassing. “How Middle Ages of you. Men are supposed to control their urges, and women are supposed to wear what they want.”
Cash chuckles and closes the shirt over my boobs. “It’s not about controlling my urges in the face of a nice pair of tits. It’s about me not wanting to share you with anyone else.”
I hate the word ‘tits.’ But also, I love it.
“I don’t belong to you, so you have nothing to share,” I say, jutting out my chin.
Telepathically, I wish for Cash to contradict me. It’s wrong, but I want him to say the line. I want him to say, “That’s where you’re wrong, little girl. You are mine; you just don’t know it yet.”
Say it, say it, say it!
“Maybe not, but I can’t get you out of my head, Caroline.”
Oh. Oh, that’s better than the line. That did something new and fascinating to my body. My nipples prick just inches away from where he grasps the shirt he placed around me.
He goes on. “I didn’t sleep last night because of you. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t think. I took a walk at one o’clock in the morning, and somehow, I ended up at your cabin, checking the locks on your doors and windows. And then I checked your car, which was open, by the way. I spent the rest of the night lying awake. Eventually, I gave up and went to the shop to have coffee with you before starting on fixing the boats. But then I arrived at the shop and—”
“And I had drunk all the coffee,” I breathe.
“And you had drunk all the coffee,” he says, nodding, the firelight revealing the barest hint of a smirk.
“You made more. You could have stayed and hung out for five minutes,” I say, my eyes transfixed by the tiny lines at the corner of his upturned lips. “Maybe that would have been enough to get me out of your system.”
“I don’t think that would have worked, Caroline.”
Is it me, or is he closer? And why is he still clutching the shirt he put on me?
I swallow, then say, “That whole speech about how you’re obsessed with me was way more romantic than what I had planned for your character. Good job.”
“You can’t use me as a romance hero in a book.”
I pout, “Why not?”
“Because I don’t give you permission.”
“I don’t actually need your permission if I change your name. Although Cash is the perfect romance hero name.”
“It is?”
“Surpassed only by Colt, Jake, and Wyatt.”
“Uh…okay,” he grunts.
“Unless you’re talking about historical romances because that’s another thing. Sir Charles Wankerton, Earl of Worcestershire—”
“Caroline, stop talking.”
