Page 18 of Pucking Curves

If he finds out before then, there’s no goddamn way she’ll stay with me. I’m not an idiot. She’s already afraid this is going to fuck everything up. I’ve got nothing but desperation on my side here. It’s a bitch of a mistress.

She’s quiet on the drive to her place. I don’t press her to talk. I figure I’ve pushed her enough for one day.

But when we pull into the driveway of her townhouse, she glances over at me, her lips pursed, and her brows furrowed. Trouble brews like a goddamn storm in her eyes.

“How do you know where I live?” The question drops into the silence between us like a ticking bomb.

Fuck.

“Micah told me.”

“He told you where I live.” She says it like a statement.

I kill the engine and pocket the keys, trying to buy myself a little time here. The truth is that this isn’t the first time I’ve been here. I come so often, I could drive to her place from the arena with my eyes closed and not miss a beat. Half the damn time, I find myself halfway here before I even realize where I’m heading.

But I don’t know if she’s ready for that much truth yet. She may kick my ass out of her life for good once she knows the depths of my obsession…once she knows just how far I’ve gone to keep her close.

“You’re lying, Archer,” she says, calling me on my bullshit before I even have time to come up with a good excuse. “Micah wouldn’t tell you where I live.”

“You’re right.” I swallow, my gaze flickering in her direction. She doesn’t look pissed. Just…curious. Confused. “He was bitching about the neighborhood after you moved in. Didn’t think it was safe enough for you. I come through here sometimes, so I asked for the address, told him I’d keep an eye on things if I was in the neighborhood, make sure there wasn’t anything he needed to worry about.”

“How often do you come through here?”

Well, shit.

“Often enough.”

“Archer!” she cries, frustration stamped all over her pretty little face. “You come by here just to check on me, don’t you?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“How often?”

I hesitate. One second. Two. “Don’t ask questions you aren’t ready to hear the answers to, Wren,” I finally murmur, my voice soft. “You might not like them.” It’s a confession and warning all wrapped in one. Not a lie…but not the truth, either. It’s the place in between, the one that gives me a little room and a little time.

Christ, I need time.

She stares at me, her lips slightly parted, stunned, I think. But she doesn’t shrink from the truth. She just…nods. And I want to haul her onto my lap and pour my secrets into her.

Would she run if she knew?

“Okay,” she whispers, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her lips. She doesn’t ask again. But she knows that I’m here every goddamn chance I get. I see it written all over her face.

“You ready to go get your shit?”

Apparently, that’s the wrong question to ask because sweet little Wren turns into a sassy little fire-breathing dragon before my eyes.

“First of all, do not refer to mythingsas shit,” she says, those gray eyes narrowing as her chin comes up. “I don’t call your equipment crap.”

I grin, unable to help myself. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Second…no! No, I am not ready to get mythings.”

“Keep emphasizing the word like that, little bird, and we’re going to be giving your neighbors a show.”

She unlatches her seatbelt with careful intention before letting it retract back into the frame. I watch with an amused grin on my face as she leans down, searching beneath her seat with one hand.

“If you’re looking for a weapon, there isn’t one down there.”

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