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“Dated anyone? I just told you I haven’t.”
“Fucked anyone.” The blunt correction comes out before I can stop it, and I can't muster up even a sliver of regret because of the pretty color my crass words turn her cheeks.
Sunday drops her gaze again, and my stomach does something weird. I reach across the table, grabbing the hand not picking through a graveyard of chicken wing bones. “Please tell me your first fuck in over ten years was not with me in the passenger seat of your car.”
She’s red now. Verging on purple. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“Why?” Her scoff is sardonic. “So you could bust out the candles and rose petals?”
“So I could do a lot of things.” Get a hotel room, for one. Not rush things. Make her come a lot more than twice. Once for every year she missed out—that would’ve been a good start. Fuck her nice and slow instead of hurried and greedy. Made it last.
Heels dig into my thigh. “Stop glaring.”
I don’t. I can’t. It’s pissing me off too much, knowing that a car quickie was what broke a ten year dry spell. How fucking disappointing. And this is her first date too? A fake one withme?
“Cass.” She kicks me again. “We have an audience.”
When I follow the jerk of Sunday’s head, I sigh at what I find; a group of college students huddled together, trying too hard to look casual, phones held at awkward angles, the hallmark of invaded privacy.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a lightbulb flickers to life.
This isn’t a real date—fine. But it can sure look and feel like one.
Sunday squints at me as I rise and move to her side of the booth. “What’re you doing?”
Angling myself so our audience can only see my back, I sling an arm across the back of the booth, just barely grazing her shoulders. My hand lands on the bare skin above her knee, thumb tracing abstract circles. “Cass Morgan wouldneversit so far away from his date.”
She laughs, frowns, and shakes her head all at once. “I’m not really your date.”
“No?” I cock my head, twirling a soft strand of her hair around my finger and tugging gently. “Looks like you are. You wear this dress on purpose?” Been wondering since I picked her up if she put it on with the sole intention of driving me out of my mind. If so, she’s doing a fucking great job.
Sunday stares at her lap, watching as I toy with the lacy hem. “You don’t like it?”
“I love it.” I slip a finger beneath one dainty strap, rub the silky material between my fingers. “Loved it that night we’re not supposed to talk about too.”
“The forgotten night.”
“Forgottenis a little ambitious.”
“Hazy?”
“Still crystal clear in my head. But I wouldn’t say no to a refresher course.”
“Cass.” My name is a warning, and I heed it.
Kinda. Barely.
All I do, really, is revert my grip to safer territory, the material of her dress separating my palm from her bare skin. My lips, though… They have a mind of their own. They feel left out. They wanna feel that strap too, and the soft skin beneath it.
I drop my head slowly. Drag my nose down the length of her neck, inhaling the lavender scent of her shampoo, the faint whiff of cinnamon from whatever she undoubtedly baked today. When my lips graze the crook of her shoulder, I relish the way her breath hitches.
“What’re you doing?” she asks again, but it’s not a plea to stop, not when her fingers cup the nape of my neck and hold me in place.
Humming against her, I nip at her skin. “Gotta look real, right?”
“This is what you do on real dates?”
