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“Sheesh.” He whistles, pressing a palm to his chest. “You really lose your charm after you get a guy in bed, huh?”
“I don’t hear you waxing poetic.”Or doing that forgetting we discussed.
“Fishing for compliments,” Cass hums. “That’s hot.”
A breathy laugh leaves me, bewildered amusement coaxing my mouth open and my eyes wide. He’sflirtingwith me. In a teasing, friendly kind of way but flirting all the same.
Rattlingall the same.
It’s his default, I remember reading that somewhere.When the going gets tough, Cass gets flirting, I believe is the exact headline I saw during my Internet sleuth, sticking in my head only because a blurry picture of my back accompanied it. It’s just his personality, I know that.
But it doesn’t feel like just his personality when his free hand glides along the curve of my waist and draws me close enough for him to drop a kiss on my cheek, the same way he did at his house a few days ago, with just as much ease too. “You look beautiful.” When we pull apart, that fragrant bouquet hovers between us. “For you.”
Huh. Another first; flowers from a man—not including the ones August gives me every Mother’s Day, bought with money stolen from my purse. I murmur my thanks as I accept them, hiding what I’m sure is nothing short of a goofy, starry-eyed expression by burying my nose amongst the petals, grateful that my smell aversions have yet to extend to anything floral.
As I admire the various hues of purple—jeez, we really have a color palette going on—I frown when I notice something a little out of place. Something dark yellow and shriveled and suspiciously un-flowerlike. Something that looks an awful lot like… “Are those dried lemon slices?”
One large hand lifts to scratch the back of his neck as his smirk fades to a lopsided grin. “Thirteen weeks, right? Size of a lemon.”
Fuck. He’s really not going easy on me, is he? “This is almost as weird as it is cute.”
“Hey, you started it. Your large strawberry controversy’s been keeping me up at night.”
“Yeah, well. Karma.”
Cass tilts his head to one side. “Am I keeping you up at night?”
I’m not quite romantically challenged enough to miss the obvious suggestion in his tone. “Uh-huh.” I swallow. “Nightmares. Terrible ones.”
He hums, and it’s the world’s most erotic noise. “My bad, sunshine.”
Fake, I internally scream at myself.Fake, fake, fake.
Cass’ hand drops when I back up a step. He shakes it out before slipping it in his pocket, accepting my retreat without another word. “Ready?”
Not even a little bit.
* * *
My first date with a celebrity is nothing like I thought it would be.
There’s no chauffeured limousine; Cass drives us himself in his Jeep. As we arrive at our destination and clamber out, there are no flashing lights, no swarm of photographers screaming his name. No one asks who I’m wearing—Free People’s finest. It’s just me and Cass and the palm of his hand pressed to my lower back as he steers me through the doors of a restaurant so fancy, I’m surprised Sun Valley has the high-end clientele to frequent it.
I feel remarkably out of place as Cass pulls out my chair and I settle on the plush velvet seat, the intricately carved wooden back pressed flush along my spine as I sit completely straight. When Cass settles opposite me, it’s like awkwardness does with him. All that easy, slightly beyond amicable energy between us evaporates. It’s replaced by a mutual, uncomfortable over-awareness of how odd this is, how many people are subtly watching us, how damn quiet it is, like everyone is listening. Like everyone is wondering what the hell The Great Cass Morgan is doing with little ol’ me. And honestly, I completely understand.
Ordinarily, Cass dates celebrities. Supermodels.
I date… John. Literally just John, and I thinkdateis even a stretch.
This is so far out of my comfort zone, I can’t even comprehend how I should act, and unfortunately, I’m pretty sure that’s painfully obvious. It takes a monumental amount of energy to even choke out a request for water when the waiter asks, and when Cass orders the same, I overthink that too, how he’s not drinking just because I can’t.
It only gets worse when we’re handed menus. Beautifully bound, heavy menus with very, very expensive contents, none of which I can fathom ordering because even though I’m in a perpetual state of starvation, nothing appeals to me. I don’t want freaking foie gras or liver; just the thought of either makes my stomach turn.
I want a cheeseburger. Not beef though because beef is one of the many things repulsing me lately. A chicken and bacon cheeseburger with extra pickles. And drought-inducingly salty fries with Sriracha mayo, extra hot because I’m enjoying the spice while I can before permanent acid reflux kicks in. And a starter of chicken wings certainly wouldn’t go amiss. Oh, and grits. Jesus, I would commit terrible crimes for some cheesy, buttery grits.
“You know what you’re getting?”
Jerked out of my dreamy food haze, I blink at Cass and the suddenly reappeared waitress, both staring at me with matching frowns. “Oh.” I drop my gaze to the menu, picking the first thing I lay my eyes on even if mushroom risotto does sound revolting.
