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Chick was fucking crazy. From her letters, she was also possessive. She’d feel me making a pretty little good girl mine. Maybe she’d even feel it enough to fuck off for good.
As I’d never been willing to let my relationship with Alyssa go public, making a statement to the world with Wrenlee had to piss Alyssa off enough to make her take the hint. I don’t want her. I’ll never want her. I’d never really wanted her in the first place. She’s history.
I’ve moved on and it’s time she do the same.
Wrenlee isn’t even close to my type, and I plan to be all over the girl in public. A smirk hits my lips when I think of her innocently cute ideas about hugs andhand holding being how I intend to show the world she’s mine. She was really mine; I’d put a stamp on her that no one would question, and no man would be fool enough to challenge.
Hugs and hand holding, fucking cute. But not quite what I have in mind.
Girl’s gonna be hit with a hard dose of reality real damn soon. When I’ve made something mine, truly mine, I’m possessive about it.
I’ve never made a woman mine, but I figure if I did that—if I was capable of being the kind of man who really fell for a woman—I’d be the possessive type.
So that’s what I’d project to the world.
The statement would be clear to all the Alyssa’s out there who thought they could stalk a man into falling in love with them.Crazy bitch.
Swinging open the door of the fridge, I wonder if Wrenlee has eaten. Visions of the messy little square of space I found her living in with apparently two roommates comes to mind, and I figure she hasn’t eaten. Girl didn’t even have cream in her fridge for coffee.
I smirk again at the carton of cream and the backup one that stands behind it in my fridge. I like my coffee too, so in that, at least we’re compatible. I’m not sure if we have anything else in common, but for the foreseeable future, the girl’s ass is in my condo and the world is gonna think she’s in my bed.
I grab the carton of eggs, a pack of bacon, mushrooms, a tomato, and some green onions from the fridge. I’m about to start frying the bacon for the omelette I plan to make for the two of us, but pause with my hand on the pack, wondering for only a moment if she likes eggs. Hell, maybe she hates mushrooms or is allergic to tomatoes. What if the girl is a vegetarian, or worse, a vegan?
I’m not sure I have it in me to live under those differences, and find my eyes roaming to the hall, her name barking from my lungs. “Wrenlee.”
The click of her door followed by her body appearing in the hall has something in my chest oozing warmth. I don’t like it.
Don’t like that even though she isn’t my type, not even a little bit, over the last few weeks I’ve had a hard time keeping my eyes off her. When I saw fuck-face put his tongue on her the other night, I’d almost blown with rage on stage.
She’d already been mine.
She starts down the hall, leaving the bedroom door open. I like the way she moves.
“You eat meat?”
Her eyes slide to the bacon on the counter, and she nods. “I don’t love salmon. But I’m not picky otherwise.”
Thank fuck. “Good.”
She stops on the other side of the long, wide islandthat overlooks the living room, but she doesn’t slide her sweet ass onto a stool. “You cook?”
“The basics.”
She nods, watching me. “Want help?”
My eyes slide to hers. By the look of her previous apartment, with the boxes of cheap, premade meals stacked empty on the counter, I’d figured she didn’t know how.
“You can cook?”
She nods, sliding around the island to stand beside me. I catch the same sweetly musky scent I’d caught last night in the hall and again in my car this morning. It’d been the first time I’d been close enough to her to catch her scent. The night before, I’d wanted to lean in and devour her.
If Tav hadn’t interrupted, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have taken a taste.
She distracts me by answering my question. “I love cooking, actually.”
I feel my brows shoot high in disbelief. She doesn’t see it as she reaches across me for the tomato, pulling another cutting board from where I pulled mine. “You love cooking?”
She nods, assesses the ingredients I have on the island, and mumbles, “Omelette?”
