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I know I can’t keep her forever. That’s a good thing. I never let things get serious, anyway.
And this girl, she’s the kind you want to have your babies.
We’ve got to find that SOB, Trevor. He put up a good fight but left that warehouse dragging his tail between his legs. I may have bested him in our tussle, but right now?
The asshole has our heads scratching.
It’s embarrassing that we haven’t found him yet. There have been traces. Clues. A statement from a man named Crank saying he saw Trevor at his and Rhett’s apartment before he took off in his car. A credit card purchase at a gas station. An abandoned Camaro.
The greasy-haired bastard hasn’t been caught. Okay, his hair isn’t really greasy. He had a pretty nice head of hair, actually. Not sure why I noticed that when I was clocking him, but I did.
Regardless of his great hair, we’re going to catch him.
And when we do…
His ass is mine.
Chapter Thirteen
Rhett
The man won’t stop spoiling me. I’ve told him it’s too much. To save his money. To stop wasting it all on me.
He said it’s not a waste.
He said…
It makes him…
Happy.
Happy to do things for me. Happy to put a smile on my face. I’ve never, ever, had someone do things for me, for the sole purpose of seeing me smile.
He makes me coffee in the morning. Has Beauties bring me comfy—albeit designer—clothing in my size. Leggings, shorts, tees, tanks, sneakers. He’s stocked his bathroom with more beauty products than I could use if I stayed here for a year.
He’s not the only one spoiling me. Ashely has left pallets of makeup, fuzzy slippers, a thick cotton robe. And the food… God, the food. Boston’s sent baskets of his homemade goodies—cookies, cakes, breakfast muffins.
Beckett feeds me. Constantly. Ordering in from the city’s most in-demand restaurants. Tonight, I’m trying sushi for the first time. I find I favor the fried rolls over the raw.
After dinner, we sit at the island, talking. I find myself pouring out stories, telling him things about my childhood I never even told Trevor.
Not that my ex-boyfriend asked.
As we clean up dinner, he opens up too, telling me about his traumatic childhood and how Ashely took care of him. That’s why the two are so close.
“I’m glad we’re getting to know one another, but damn, this conversation is getting depressing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. A little,” I laugh. “I’m ready to move on to lighter subjects. Topic shift. What’s your favorite color?”
He stands from his barstool, stretching. “Hmm… I like the color blue A chose for the walls in here. What about you?” I watch his gorgeous, muscular body as he walks to the other side of the kitchen.
“I like red.”
“Like my front door?” he asks.
“Yes. I actually loved your front door. I noticed it right away when we pulled up. It’s the same red as my car.”
He stops opening the fridge to turn to me and smile. “You love that little Honda, don’t you?”
