Page 92 of Arrogant Puck

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Not according to her,” she says with a rueful smile. “What’s your family like?”

I lean down, bracing my elbows on the counter and staring at her. She’s really doing this—trying to get to know me like a normal person would. Like someone who gives a shit about the answers.

“What?” she asks, taking another bite.

“You’re trying to get to know me?” I blink.

She scoffs, but there’s warmth in it. “Maybe.”

“They’re not worth knowing, honestly. Old money. High on drugs. Story as old as time.” The words come out more bitter than I intended, but they’re true. My parents are ghosts floating through their separate mansions, more interested in their pharmaceutical dependencies than their surviving son.

“So, you’re all alone in this world?” she asks, and there’s something gentle in her voice that makes my chest ache.

I look at her directly. “I’m not alone anymore.”

I watch as her breath stutters, see something flash in her eyes before she takes another bite to cover her reaction.

“Tomorrow’s Monday,” she says, changing the subject.

“Yeah?” I question, wondering where this conversation is going now.

“I applied to a bunch of places, so I should be out of your hair by the end of the week.”

My jaw clenches involuntarily at the thought of her leaving. “We’ll see about that.”

“You think you can convince me to stay?” she challenges lightly, but I can hear the question underneath.

I take a gulp of water before speaking, letting the silence build. “You already know the answer to that.” I pause, studying her face. “Do you want to get out of the house with me today? I have to run errands.”

“Yeah. I’ll clean up and get ready.”

I nod. “Go get ready. I’ll clean.”

She hops off the stool and walks toward her room, and I can’t help but watch her ass as she moves. The way her hips sway in those cute pajama shorts should be illegal.

As I clean up the lunch dishes, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if she stayed. Really stayed, not just until she finds somewhere else to run to. Mornings like this one, lazy afternoons, coming home to someone who actually cares if I’m alive or dead.

I could get used to this. Hell, I’m already addicted to having her around.

Chapter 33

When he pulls into the Target parking lot, I look at him with complete bewilderment. “This is what you mean by running errands?”

Of all the places I expected Slater Castellano to take me, Target wasn’t on the list. The man who hits people for fun on the ice shops at Target?

I underestimated him.

He turns to me with that slight smirk that’s becoming dangerously familiar. “Yeah, come on.”

We get out of his expensive car—which looks ridiculously out of place among the Honda Civics and Toyota Camrys—and walk toward the store.

It feels awfully like we’re together, especially with the way people’s eyes immediately gravitate toward Slater. It has tobe his height, his undeniable good looks, and that confident demeanor that screams athlete even in civilian clothes.

A woman with her teenage daughter literally stops walking to stare as we pass. The daughter whispers something that sounds like “Is that?” but Slater pays no attention to anyone. He’s completely focused, moving through the store like a man on a mission.

When he looks at me, though, his entire expression softens. The hard edges disappear, replaced by something warm and almost tender that makes my stomach flutter in ways I’m trying not to acknowledge.

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