Текст книги "Tangled Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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His eyebrows slowly go up, and his lips form a smirk. The pure amusement etching its way across his features has blood rushing to my cheeks.

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

He nods. Smugly.

“Well, this date was great, but I’ll be catching the bus home. Like, now. Thanks.” I unclip my seat belt and go to open my door when his opens. I’ve barely pushed mine away when he appears in the space and leans into the truck, that smirk still curved on his lips.

“For equality’s sake, I happen to be very fond of four parts of you. Your mouth—as long as it’s kissing and not talkin’, that is—your tits, your ass, and your pussy. Now, we’re even, and the only ride you’ll be catching is one with me, so get your extremely hot ass out of the truck and do as you’re told for once.”

I snort. “You do realize who you’re talkin’ to, don’t you? The day I do as I’m told is the day I’m rendered incapable of doing my own thing.”

“I keep handcuffs in my truck when I’m off-duty. Don’t tempt me into using them.”

“You’ve threatened it at least five times. You’re all no talk and no damn action, aren’t you?” I sniff and jump out, my breasts brushing his chest as my feet hit the floor. “I’m not afraid of a little metal. If you’re gonna whip them out and fuck me, get the heck on with it.”

“Quite the proposition for the first date,” he murmurs, smiling.

“Either you handcuff me or I’ll do it to you. But I’ll likely attach you to a lamppost or something, so you wanna get on that.”

“The lamppost? Will you be against it and naked?”

“Uh, unless said lamppost is in either my house or yours, that’ll be a negative.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me away from the truck so he can close the door. His chest is vibrating from his laughter, and I have to choke back my own because his is so damn infectious.

“Why are we in the middle of a random parking lot?”

“Not random,” he says quietly into my ear. He spins me and slaps his hand over my eyes.

“Oh my God. What the hell are you doing?” I grab his hand and try to pry his fingers away from my eyes, but he simply takes me by the wrist and stops me.

“Trust me, remember?” He runs his lips along the curve of my earlobe, and his exhale ghosts across my jaw.

“Fine, but only because I know I can reach my gun.”

Another laugh. Jesus. Why is his laugh so fucking perfect? I wish he’d be like laugh-chuckle-snort once in a while. And not even a derogatory snort. One of those great, big freakin’ snorts that means you need to blow your nose ten times after.

They aren’t attractive at all.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask as he nudges me into a walk.

“If you keep asking, I’m gonna dump your ass by a river and then you’ll never know.”

“You’re such a bastard.”

“But you like my cock, so it works.”

“Most bastards have nice cocks. It’s not exactly a trait exclusive to you, you know.”

“I’m offended that you think my cock is just nice. Spectacular, amazing, godly—those I can understand. But nice, Noelle? Really?”

“Hey—put that really in front of nice and you’ve almost got a compliment.”

“You’re impossible.”

“At least I’m trying. Do you know how hard it is for a people-hater to be nice to people?”

“I’m sure you’re real traumatized,” he drawls. “Stop. Stop, Noelle!”

“Stop what? Talking? Walking? Breathing?”

“Fuck, I’m gonna spank that sass outta you in a minute.”

I lean forward, sticking my ass against him, and wriggle my hips. He promptly drops his hand from my eyes, steps back, and smacks his palm across my butt. I gasp, jumping away from him and grabbing my poor butt. Oh my God.

He actually spanked me.

And I liked it.

“I should put a bullet through your foot, you bastard!”

Oh. My. God.

He. Spanked. Me.

He laughs, grabs my hand, and pulls me into him. “I got other places for you to put your bullets, cupcake.”

“Like your balls?”

He spins me by my shoulders, and I blink a few times before where we are sinks in.

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “Are you insane?”

“I’m on a date with you. You don’t want me to answer that.” He slides his hands down my arms, and strong and certain, he grasps my waist. Then he pulls me back into him. He wraps his arms around my stomach, but I can’t breathe, because this isn’t your usual date.

This isn’t fucking flowers and dinner. It isn’t a picnic in the park or a walk on the beach.

This is the fucking shooting range.

“Surprise,” he whispers, the word holding so much. Just so much.

“You brought me to the range. For a date,” I whisper back. “Holy shit, Drake. Why?”

“Because, if I took you for dinner, I’d have a glass of wine down my shirt within five minutes.”

“I’d never be that careless with my wine. Maybe yours, but not mine.” I smile, dropping my chin to my chest, because holy crap. All the holy craps and shits and fucks.

“True. But I brought you here because it’s your favorite place. And it’s legal, unlike your father’s backyard range.”

My smile becomes a full-fledged grin, and I can’t do anything but laugh. “You realize that, the last time we were at a range together, I shot you?”

“I still have the scar, so yeah. But I’m fucked if we’re sharin’ a booth. You’re on your own there, cupcake.”

I drag my teeth across my bottom lip. “Probably for the best.”

He slowly moves around the side of me, taking my hand. “Let’s go. I booked us two booths.”

“You can book booths?”

“You can if you’re the leading homicide detective who solved the first murder in town in twenty-something years.”

“Did you take my credit?”

“Absolutely.”

“Dick.” I hit his arm, smiling, then stop. Because his eyes are so bright right now. They’re so arresting and intense, and his fingers are sliding through mine without an ounce of fear.

No. I lied. I can see the fear. There isn’t much, granted. His confidence far outweighs his fear, but there’s a spark of it in his eyes. The tiniest amount everyone else would miss. But for me, it mixes with his confidence and arrogance and makes him seem more human. Makes him dangerous.

Beneath his sexy threats and cocky smirks, there’s a very real fear simmering. And you know what?

I have the very same fear.

That this date will be the worst in history. That, in a couple of hours, we’ll realize we’ve made a huge mistake. But through it all… If I have to make a giant dating mistake, I want it to be him. ’Cause then I’ll know that my mistake was a good one.

Because he’s really not that bad.

I take a deep breath as his lips part. He blinks once, and when our eyes meet again, something moves between us. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t think I want to.

“Let’s go,” he says softly.

I nod and let him lead me into the building. The shots ringing out are muffled by the heavy door separating the range and reception areas. We’re booked in by the tattooed, bored-looking man behind the counter, handed two sets of ear defenders, and given a flat-toned rundown of the rules.

I think the man needs a cupcake.

Eventually, Mr. Monotone shows us to our booth—not two, like Drake said—and leaves us to it.

“You know, I haven’t been here since my sweet sixteenth.” Yes, I did have it at the shooting range…followed by cupcakes. Obviously.

“Was that byb choice, or did they ban you?” Drake cuts his eyes to me and pulls his gun off his belt.

“How many times do I have to apologize to you, huh? I followed the rules—you were the one being a dick, and I didn’t even mean to shoot you!”

Amusement dances across his face. “Oh, I’m sorry my foot got in the way of your bullet shot at the floor!”

“If you’re still that sore about it, why did you bring me here?”

“Because, if you do it again, I can arrest you. I hadn’t even graduated from the academy back then.”

I lean against the side as he lifts his gun, knocks the safety off, and lifts it higher. He locks his arms into place, and sweet hell. Those weapons are deadly enough without having a gun attached to the ends of them. My eyes flit over his upper arms, pure muscle twitching and dimpling as he pulls the trigger and the shot booms out.

When he’s put the gun down, I say, “You weren’t a cop then?”

“That year,” he answers. “Trent and I were a couple months out of the end.”

I frown, but yes. He is right. Trent got his badge between our birthdays.

“Okay, but you could have gotten me arrested,” I say.

“Nah.” He turns to me, grinning. “Why would I do that? One, it was your birthday, and two, I’d never have lived that down. Whining because a sixteen-year-old girl accidentally shot my foot, and not even dangerously?”

“Another half inch and they would have needed to reattach your toe,” I remind him dryly.

“And that woulda been dangerous.” He laughs. “It’s fuckin’ bad enough as it is. I’m never gonna hear the end of it from your brothers.”

“But you’re their superior.”

“But I only have power over Trent, and he’s got one helluva right hook I’d rather avoid.”

Now, I laugh. True that. Trent’s right fist has dished out more than one or two black eyes in the last few years. I guess that’s what happens when you insist to your wife that the punching bag stays in the basement and the brand-new artificial Christmas tree she bought last week can go fuck itself.

Fortunately, that’s a skill he did teach me. Right before I left for training in Dallas. Something about overly handy college-aged bastards who lose their ability to hear when the word no is uttered. I mean, kicking them in the balls works just as well, but the punch straight after was purely for my entertainment.

“You know I have the same right hook, right?” I ask Drake with a coy smile after I take a shot.

“Naturally. I’m almost certain you’ll never need to be saved by a man.”

“I’m no damsel in distress.” I wait as he fires again, hitting the target dead-center.

“Noelle, sweetheart, you’re probably the reason damsels get distressed. Your badass gene is unparalleled. Is there anything you are afraid of?”

I smack my lips together. “Spiders.”

Drake stops, and as he slowly turns his face to me, he arches one eyebrow in disbelief. “You’re afraid of spiders.”

“Of course I’m afraid of spiders. Honestly, there is estrogen mixed with my badass gene.”

“You’re afraid of spiders,” he says again, his disbelief even more evident in the way his eyebrow drops and his eyes widen.

“I’m hands-up, jumping-on-the-table, screaming kind of afraid of spiders.”

“Please,” he mutters. “Please call me if you find one in your house.”

“Why? So you can video me brandishing a hairband as a weapon and put it on YouTube?”

“No. Good idea though.” He laughs and, with his gun set down, comes to me. He stops right in front of me, and as always, his proximity makes my heart race.

I put my own gun down again and resist the urge to wipe my hands against the skirt of my dress. My tongue flicks across my lips when he softly touches his hand to my chin and tilts my head back.

Our gazes collide. Laughter and satisfaction glitter back at me from the icy-blue abyss that is his eyes. I could get lost in his eyes so easily… It would be so easy to stand and stare at him and forget everything else, even the gunshots happening around us.

“I want you to call me if you have a spider in your house because, yes, I want to see you be scared, but not for my amusement. You’re the hardest person I know. You are so…unbreakable, Noelle. For anyone who doesn’t know you, you are fuckin’ terrifyin’. Someone breaks into your house, you go search with a gun. Someone does the same to your office, you go on a warpath and go out for blood. Someone holds a gun in your face, you shoot them first.”

He releases my chin only to trail his fingers down my neck to my collarbone then over my shoulder and the thin strap of my dress to my arm. Then lightly, oh so lightly that there’s nothing but electrical sparks where his fingertips are brushing my skin, he drops his hand down to mine.

“I want to see you feel fear over somethin’ that is so ridiculously small and harmless and far more terrified of you than you are of it because I want, more than anythin’, to see the softer side of yourself you rarely let out to play.”

I swallow. Hard. But the lump in my throat doesn’t go anywhere, so I fight it by taking a deep breath. His words swirl around my mind, and I want to argue, to fight his ridiculous fucking statement, but I can’t. Because his ridiculous fucking statement is one hundred percent true.

Damn righteous pain in my backside.

Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I look away from him. It’s like the flutters in my stomach have changed to something much more quivery and uneasy. I still want to rebuff his statements. I wanna yell that he’s being stupid, because I am totally soft. I cried at a rescue shelter commercial two days ago. I want to remind him that, after I checked my house for the intruder with my gun, I broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. Into him.

I know what he’s asking. He’s asking me to drop my guards for him when, three weeks ago, I could barely stand to be around him. God.

“Fine,” I whisper then clear my throat, bringing my eyes back to his. “For this date. I’ll be the flouncy, little girly damsel you want me to be, but then, after that, I’m going to pull out my highest stiletto and do unspeakable things to your crown jewels with them.”

His smile is slow and sexy and so, so heart-stopping with the way a tiny dimple appears in his cheek and his eyes light up. “Right. You’re gonna last another couple of hours without cussing me out, back-talking me, or threatening more bodily harm?”

I open my mouth and then close it again. “You’re the one who wants me to be demure.”

“For the record, cupcake, I happen to find your feisty side sexy as fuck. And I never said demure. I said it’s okay not to be a hardass sometimes and let the men in your life be the men.”

“Are you callin’ me a man?”

He drops his eyes to my chest, which is hugged by white lace, and lingers there. “Sure. I dream about fucking men with tits as great as yours all the time.”

“Aw, I think that was a compliment.”

He winks and closes his fingers around my hand. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Right here.” With a laugh, he spins me so I’m facing the target and steps behind me. He pushes me forward until I’m where I need to be standing to shoot and moves so close to me that there can’t be any space between our bodies.

“What on Earth are you doin’?” I ask, turning my head so I can look at him.

He reaches around me, grabs my gun, then positions his mouth by my ear. “I’m being the man on this date and teaching you how to shoot properly.”

“I’m assuming you’re going somewhere with this.”

“Well, yeah. It doesn’t exactly help my masculinity when my date can shoot better than I do.” He takes my hand and places it on the handle of my gun. He closes his over mine, his fingers bringing mine up to the trigger.

“You’re not using this as a ploy, are you? Like, you’re not gonna suddenly drop the gun and shoot me, are you? My boots are expensive."

“Obviously you’re worried about your boots. Not a bullet in your foot. Your priorities are real fucked.”

“Hey. I’m a woman. My boots are my babies.”

“And so are your sandals, and your high heels, and your slippers…”

I take my hand off the gun and elbow him. “Are you saying I have an unhealthy relationship with my shoes?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes.” He laughs, and the way his chest vibrates against my back suddenly has me hyperaware of how very close we are.

“Well, look at that. We agree on something.” I take the gun again and ignore the intense warmth of his palm over the back of my hand and the way his fingers stroke mine. And the way his body is so hard and toned and so very against me. “This position is incredibly uncomfortable.”

He touches his mouth to the back of my head and I feel his smile. “If you think you’re uncomfortable…”

“You put us here.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’.”

“No, but another part of you is.” And good Lord, I am so very tempted to wriggle my butt against him right now.

“Wriggle your ass and I can’t promise this bullet will hit the target.”

I won’t be wriggling my ass. “You’re a pain in my ass, Detective.” And a literal kinda one if he doesn’t get his erection under control.

“Jesus, Noelle,” he breathes. “Shut the fuck up and shoot so I can let go of you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Kiss your fuckin’ cupcake goodbye.”

Well, now. That’s quite the threat. One I am so not willing to risk.

“Okay, Mr. Instructor. Teach me how to shoot this load. I mean, the gun. The gun.”

“Noelle,” he growls. He lets gun go and grasps my hips.

My dress bunches under his rough touch, and I inhale sharply at the jolt it sends through me. His warm breath flutters across the back of my neck when he reaches up and moves my hair away. And it gets warmer, and warmer, and warmer, until oh shit, that’s not his breath anymore.

His lips, soft and red hot, press against the base of my neck. Bursts of heat shoot right through my body at the very simple touch, and my blood pumps harder and faster until all of me is on fire.

Drake drags his mouth across my skin, peppering tiny kisses between firmer, longer ones. I can’t think. At all. There’s just his mouth on my skin and his hands on my hips and his erection pressing against me. I can’t breathe right. I want to close my eyes and forget everything and savor his touch.

“Pull the trigger,” he whispers against the side of my neck. “Now.”

I do.

Completely uncontrolled by me, my finger pulls and the gun goes off.

The bullet doesn’t even hit the rings of the target.

“You’re a prize bastard,” I breathe, putting my gun down and breaking free from his hold.

He steps toward me, pushing me against the ledge where our guns are, and grips it on either side of my body. “I know,” he whispers, dipping his face down to mine.

My mouth goes dry as his eyes drop to my mouth. His hard cock is pressed against my lower stomach, and my breasts are heaving against his chest as I still struggle to control my breathing. The best I can manage right now is short, sharp bursts of air. They don’t even qualify as breaths, in all honesty.

They’re more like the physical embodiment of my desire right now. And so is the intense throbbing between my legs. Jesus, he could free his cock, slip my panties to the side, and fuck me right here in the middle of the range and I don’t even think I’d care at all.

In fact, right now, I’d welcome it.

“We need to leave. Right now,” he says gruffly, grabbing his gun and moving off me.

I quickly nod in agreement and grab my own, putting it back into my thigh holster. I take two steps past him, but his fingers clasp my wrist and he pulls me back into him.

“Next time you look at me like that, we won’t be walking away from the situation.”

“Like—like what?” My voice is as scratchy as my throat feels.

“Like you want me so far inside you we become the same person, ’cause, Noelle—I’m absolutely not afraid to fuck you until you forget that we are different people.”

I want to say something cocky. Something that’ll throw him off. But I can’t. He has me tied up in fucking knots.

“Noted.”

Noted. Fucking noted. Is that really the best I have?

“Let’s get you your damn cupcake.” He lets me go and stalks past me.

I catch him up by the doors. “Just to clarify, by cupcake, you mean an actual cupcake, right?”

With a deviously sexy glint in his eye and his lips tugged into the most confident smirk I’ve ever seen, he hits me full force with his gaze. “Sweetheart, if I mean I’m going to fuck the hell outta you, I’m gonna say it, not use a cupcake as a euphemism.”

“Unless you’re going to use cupcake frosting as an added extra.”

“I don’t even like cupcake frosting that much,” he admits, grabbing his door handle. “But shit. Now, I want to handcuff you and lick the frosting off your body.”

I blink at him. “That escalated quickly.”

“Agreed. So shut up and get in the truck before something else fucking escalates.”

“Oh! Can you stop outside the office?”

Drake flits his eyes to me. “You’re gonna work?”

“No. I had a new client come in yesterday and I want to see if she brought the contract and retainer yet. She was supposed to report it to the police.”

“Okay, I’m gonna try to keep a level head here, but what the fuck?”

I sigh and summarize my meeting with Natalie. “I told her I needed a police report, because then, if I happen to see the guy stalking her, I can call the cops there and then.”

“And you want to ask me about the ex-boyfriend.”

I suck my lower lip into my mouth and release it on a smile. “Maybe.”

His heavy sigh beats mine, and he makes the turn toward the office. “Fine. Then we’re going to Rosie’s for cupcakes.”

“Rosie’s?”

“If you think I’m driving almost an hour to Gigi’s while my cock is still semi hard, you can think again.”

“Boo. Is this how you normally treat your dates?”

“Don’t date.”

“You don’t date? How do you not date?”

“Cop.”

“So was my married father. My married brother is, and my newly-engaged brother is, too. The other, well… He whores, mostly. And I dated while I was a cop.”

“Homicide cop,” he tries again.

“I’m sorry. I must not know about the part of town where people are dropping likes flies due to murder.”

“Not everyone has to date, Noelle.” He pulls up outside the office. “I made a choice not to after I left the academy and settled in at home.”

“So, you haven’t dated for, what, ten years?” I turn in my seat.

“I whored. One or two dates and that was it. I wasn’t interested in more.”

I can’t help but think that this is rather deep for a first date. “So, what? You’re gonna take me on one more date, pin me against a kitchen counter again, then that’s it? You won’t be interested in more?”

“Believe me, if there were any way I could not want more, I’d take it.”

“What on Earth does that mean?”

“It means that, if I want more with anyone, it’s you.”

“If? How very reassuring.” I unclip my seat belt and, with my hand on the door, look at him. “Well, when you decide, Drake, be sure to let me know what you actually want.” I shove the door open.

Fuck him. I blew off a whole day of work for this goddamn date and for what? A possibility of something more from a guy who admits on said date that he’s always shied away from more?

How about he shies away and kisses my ass as he goes?

His car door opens and closes with a slam, but I’ll be fucked if I’m gonna turn back and listen to him. If he wants more? If? If? I’m not a fucking chocolate cake that’s kind of sickly after a slice or two. I’m a goddamn human being, and either you want more of a relationship with somebody or you don’t.

Ironic considering that, three hours ago, I didn’t know what I wanted. And now that possibility is an if from him, I’m pretty sure I’m erring on the side of wanting him.

Because fucking obviously.

“Fuck me,” Drake calls. “Women. Y’all are always overreactin’ over somethin’.”

“Oh, no!” I turn on my heel, my foot actually stomping on the ground as I face him, and storm toward him. “Women overreact? Are you for real? You bug the ever-lovin’ shit outta me for two weeks about this date. Then you tell me on the damn date that you don’t do more than two dates because you’re a homicide cop in a town with two murders in twenty years? Baciare il mio cazzo—”

He yanks my body against his with one tug of my wrist, and before I can finish telling him to kiss my fucking ass, he slams his mouth against mine. Because I’m completely silenced and trapped against his firm body, my anger has nowhere to go except directly into him. Even as he fists my hair and bites my lower lip, making me gasp, I’m still real fucking pissed with him.

The anger fuels the kiss.

It’s fast and furious. A total war of lips and teeth and tongue.

I grab his shirt too tightly, and he tugs my hair too harshly. I nip his lip; he bites mine harder.

It’s the hottest fucking thing. Ever.

And in the middle of my work parking lot.

The fucks I give total zero.

“Women,” he mutters against my tender lips. “Always overreactin’.”

“I swear to God—”

“I want more with you,” he growls. “Even if it means we threaten to kill each other ten times a day and argue fifty. That’s your definition of love. Hate so passionate it’s real and tangible. And sweet shit, Noelle, I hate the fuck outta you more often than I think I even like you.”

“Feeling’s mutual, asshole.”

“Think about it. I don’t want a pushover. I want someone who’ll challenge me on something as bullshit as how many sugars go in a coffee.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Savage.”

“Says you.”

“This is so dumb.”

Drake laughs, his hold on my hair changing from rough to gentle as he threads his fingers through it. My blood is still pounding, my chest still heaving, and my thoughts are so erratic that not even my heart can’t keep up.

“Incredibly dumb,” he agrees, his mouth hovering over mine. “Seriously. Think about it. I don’t want a fuckin’ damsel in distress. I want you.”

I run my teeth over my bottom lip and release it quickly. “Fine. I’ll think about it. More. As long as you answer all my questions about the stalker boyfriend.”

He clicks his tongue. “Always a catch, ain’t there?”

“Yep, and I’m only up to number three, so you’ve got another nineteen until catch twenty-two.”

“Your attitude stinks.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Like a field full of roses.” I grin and extract myself from his arms. “Sweet and tempting—”

“And hiding a shit-ton of thorns.”

“Oh, honey, I couldn’t hide you even if I tried.”

He pauses, grimaces, and punches the air. “Got nothin’.”

“Yes!” I laugh, skipping toward the front door. “This is going down as one of my proudest moments: making you lost for words.”

His grimace becomes a half smile right before I turn and push the door open. Our eyes connect briefly before my name is screamed by my apparently very angry receptionist.

“You aren’t supposed to be here!”

“Oh, hush. Did Natalie bring in the contract and report?”

“The retainer check is locked in your desk.” Bek steps out of the kitchen with a coffee mug in hand. “Are you here in the middle of your date?” She glances over my shoulder. “Please tell me this isn’t the middle of your date.”

Drake sidesteps past me, his hands up. “We made it out of the range without her shootin’ me. I wasn’t gonna risk it.”

I whack his arm with the contract Grecia handed me. Son of a bitch. He disappears into the kitchen, laughing, and I pull the police report out of the envelope.

“So.” Bek grins, sidling up with me with an innocent look over her face. Except her grin, of course. That’s as devilish as her thoughts will be. “The range, huh?”

“Yep.” I smack my lips together and flick through the report. Devin took it. Good.

“Kissing?”

“Outside,” Grecia answers, filing the nail on her ring finger. “It was like watchin’ a soap opera. She stormed off all pissed and he grabbed her and, oh.” She finishes on a sigh.

I snap my fingers. “Hello? My life isn’t a romance novel. There are too many guns and cheating fuckers for that. Go back to your book.”

Grecia rolls her eyes.

“So, are you a thing now?” Bek perches on the edge of Grecia’s desk.

“A thing? What is a thing?”

“Don’t be a bitch. Are you seeing each other?”

“Only when we’re in immediate proximity.”

“Oh my God!”

“Jesus, Bek! It was one damn date!” I sigh, holding the papers up. “One. Date. Not a fucking marriage proposal.”

“But are you a thing? Will there be a second date? Have you even finished the first?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, and no, he owes me a cupcake.”

“Obviously,” she mutters. “You know, I don’t even care if you’re a thing. I’m calling you Droelle anyway.”

I freeze. “Did you just give us a ship name?”

“Well, yeah. You’re like Shamy, except he’s not as mantis-y as Sheldon, and you’re way hotter than Amy.”

“You gave us a ship name.”

“Who did what?” Drake walks out of the kitchen with a coffee in a takeout cup.

“Did you make a coffee in my kitchen and not get me one?” I ask him, staring between him and the offending cup.

“I gave you a ship name,” Bek says. “You’re now known as Droelle.”

“Aw, hell.” I look at my best friend. “Droelle is like fetch. Never gonna happen!”

Drake frowns. “The name or the relationship?”

“Put me on the spot, why don’t you?”

“I don’t know the answer, either,” he points out, tilting the cup my way.

I grab it and sip. Holy shit, hot. Hot. Hot.

“Droelle is so gonna happen,” Bek insists, getting up. “I might put it on a T-shirt.”

“Why would you do that? What’s wrong with you? Holy shit, I need a cupcake before my sugar-deprived brain shrivels up,” I moan, walking toward the door.

“I ship Droelle!” Bek yells as I stomp through it, Drake’s coffee still tight in my hand.

“I don’t blame her,” Drake adds. “Droelle is one of the better ship names. Could be Kimye.”

“How do you even know anything about that?” I ask, stopping at his truck. “You know—no. I know the answer. The same way my brothers do, presumably.”

His answering grin is infectious and reminiscent of the teenage Drake I find myself remembering. So, by the time I was thirteen, he was leaving Holly Woods to begin his cop training, but he was sweet then. The whole time. Just not to me. Mind you, I wasn’t exactly sugar sweet to him, either.

I guess, though, back then, he was simply my older brother’s mean friend who played football and soccer and baseball with him.

Insanity is being on a date with a man you’ve hated as long as you can remember and hoping that there will be a second, despite your reservations.

Our drive to Rosie’s is quick, and I wait in the car while he gets out and enters the café. I know. I’m letting him buy me my cupcake. He’ll probably come out with a joke sperm-flavored one or something, one he’s planned out specifically. Or maybe he’ll try…

And bring me one with bright-yellow frosting and a chewy lemon candy on the top. Complete with chocolate sprinkles.

It has to be hot in this car, because I think I’m melting.

“I’m impressed,” I admit, taking the box from him.

Next to my lemon one is a triple-chocolate torte one, the rich frosting swirled into a perfect point, white chocolate chips buried within the dark depths of gooey chocolate.

Looks like we’re cutting the cupcakes in half.

“Eyes off my cupcake,” he demands, starting the engine again. “If you want a triple torte one, you should start hiding those in your desk drawer instead of lemon ones.”

I open my mouth then… Fuck him. “I really hate it when you get stuff right, you know that?”