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“But you”—he turned to me, smirking—“you’re smarter than to yield to your love.”
I don’t love Angelo anymore, you fool, I wanted to scream. I love you.
“Which is why I respect you,” he added.
“You respect me?”
He got out, rounded the car, and opened my door for me. “If you’re into milking things, I’d love for it to be my cock and not simply for compliments. You know I respect you, Nem.”
The fridge in the cabin had been stocked with everything good and tasty. Freshly baked French buns sat on the counter. I wolfed down two, with local strawberry jam and chunky peanut butter.
Wolfe hopped into the shower, and I did the same after him. Then he stuffed a six-pack of beer and a handful of individually wrapped brownies into my backpack and ordered me to join him for a walk.
My forehead was still sore, my lip kept on opening every time I smiled, and I found out that my ribs must’ve bruised when I was put on the gurney, but I complied nonetheless.
I began to second-guess our mutual decision not to take a honeymoon together when he threw my girly bag over his shoulder and led me to a paved, concrete path surrounded by wild grass that whooshed in the cool breeze of the evening.
The wind and the lake provided a sound more pleasurable than any symphony, and the view was a spectacular shade of purple and pink sunset diving into rolling hills.
We walked for twenty minutes before I noticed another wooden cabin up the hill from where we were.
“What’s there?” I pointed at the cabin.
He moved a hand over his thick, dark hair. “Do I look like a tour guide?”
“You look like a sour man, Senator,” I taunted. He laughed.
“We could check.”
“Could we? I don’t want to trespass.”
“Such a law-abiding citizen. If only your father would share the virtue.”
“Hey.” I frowned.
He flicked me under the chin lightly. The gesture was growing on me. Especially paired with the fact that I no longer believed that Wolfe didn’t have feelings for me.
Not after the way he held me the day of the car chase.
“Sterling keeps telling me to stop doing that. Bunching you and your father together, I mean. It’s hard.”
“Do you do it often?” I winced as he took my hand and tugged me up the hill.
“Not lately.”
“And why is that?” I asked.
“Because you’re polar opposites.”
As we went uphill, my breathing became more ragged.
I was determined to make conversation to avert my thoughts from the fact I was definitely not in shape. I neglected my horse-riding sessions in favor of school.
Plus, I did have a question burning on the tip of my tongue.
“Are you willing to tell me why you hate my father so much now?”
“No. You can feel free to stop asking right now because the day I’ll be ready to share this with you is never.”
