Page 24 of Not Made to Last

Five non-Olivia deliveries later, and I’m losing steam. I kick my legs up on the coffee table and tap my phone against my chin, thinking.

I know what her truck looks like. Kind of. Actually, not really. I know that it’s black, and that’s about it.

I know she has an ass made for grabbing, slapping, spreading. “Ayyy!” I say out loud, raising a fist in the air. And then I shake my head, cursing myself for being such an idiot. I look around the house to make sure no one heard me, but I’m positive I saw Delaney, our house manager, take off about an hour ago.

What else? What else?

Nothing.

I got nothing.

I try my chances again and order from a place I don’t even like. Then I wait, wait, wait…

Ten minutes later, I’m practically skating across the marble floors, stopping momentarily to slip on a cap and grab a sweatshirt, and then I’m out the front door and jogging down the driveway and out the front gate.

I lean against the brick column of the security gate and wait.

And wait.

Within minutes, a black truck rounds the bend, and I stand taller, square my shoulders.

It’s like a dream, the way the sun beams through her windshield and lights up her face. With her head ducked, Olivia’seyes narrow as she looks for the house number. And those eyes—those muddy brown eyes I completely lost myself in? They widen when they see me, and I count the number of insecurities in my head.

1. She could drive away, pretend as if I don’t exist. As if that night together never happened.

2. She could stop, give me my order, and pretend she doesn’t know me.

3. She could slow to a stop, and I don’t give her a chance to decide for me.

I choose option 3 and open the door before she comes to a complete stop. After collecting my food from the passenger’s seat, I slide my ass into place.

“What the fu—hell?” are the first words she says to me. I’ll be sure to memorize them. Write it down in my amateur stalker notebook.

I’m kidding.

Kind of.

Ignoring her, I turn to the kid in the back seat. “What’s up, my guy?” I say, offering my fist.

“Off-limits” looks up from the book he’s reading to my fist, and then he shrugs and taps it. He’s got headphones on, so I don’t know if he heard me, but Olivia sure did.

“What are you doing?” Olivia hisses, eyebrows pinched, fire burning behind her glare. God, help me. That glare is like an antidote straight to my dick.

I shrug. “I didn’t know how else to see you again,” I answer truthfully. I’m not one to play games, to go around in circles. I wanted to see her, so I made that happen. Simple.

“You can’t just?—”

“Well, I better do something, Cheeks, because my neighbors are nosy, and you and me—sitting out here when it’s light out…”

Panic crosses her features, and a second later, her truck rolls forward. She looks in the rearview and says, “Max, you got your headphones on?”

“Ah, he has a name,” I murmur.Max.I wonder if it’s short for Maximus. Maximillian?

Another glare from the girl of my literal dreams, and if she keeps going like this, I might find myself with a new kink.

When Max doesn’t respond, she faces me. “What exactly are you doing?”

I grin. “A ride-along.” Curtis told me about them when he first joined the police force. I don’t know if this is similar, but I guess I’m here to find out.

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