Page 122 of Sugar

It was my first time seeing Easton in the black frames, and I was tempted to super glue them to his face so he couldn’t take them off.

Ever.

Unfortunately, that was just what he did, tossing them to the side. The devastating blow was softened when a smile split his handsome face in an instant, and I nearly melted into a puddle—both because he was so hot and from relief.

He didn’t miss the reaction, and his brows furrowed. “Come here, baby.”

His firm tone didn’t invite an argument, and I had no interest in one anyway. I hurried over and was surprised when he pulled me onto his lap despite the open door. It turned to shock when I belatedly realized that we weren’t alone.

“Why didn’t I get the same greeting from you, Easton?” Tripp Carter asked from where he lounged on the couch.

Tripp freaking Carter.

Like most LA natives, celebrities inspired very little excitement in me. I was probably a little more blasé about them since I could walk into my dad’s practice at any given time to see at least one known name.

That also meant I knew how they acted when there were no cameras around.

It was rarely pleasant.

“Because she’s mine, and you’re just a pain in my ass,” Easton said.

Because she’s mine.

Yup, the panic was just me being dramatic.

Shocking.

“Fair enough,” Tripp said as he stood. When he neared the desk, Easton’s hold on my thigh tightened until his fingertips dug in, but he didn’t speak when the actor offered his hand and an introduction that wasn’t needed. “Tripp Carter.”

“Maddie Baker.” I gave it a quick shake before dropping it to cover Easton’s. My stomach churned as I wondered if Tripp recognized me from Gilded. He gave no indication, so I carried on. “I just watched the interview you did with the puppies a few days ago. It was really good.”

He grinned, and I wished I was the kind of person to leave well enough alone.

I wasn’t.

“Did the interviewer ask something that pissed you off?” I blurted.

His gray eyes widened—and like most of the internet, I wondered if they were colored contacts. “How do you know I wasn’t pissedonby one of the hyperactive furballs?

“Were you?”

“No. But how did you know?”

“Because I think that would’ve made you laugh.” I rushed to add, “You don’t have to tell mewhatthey asked. I just want to know if I’m right.”

He held my eye contact for a long moment. “I like you.” He raised his gaze to Easton. “What the fuck is she doing with you?”

“I have no idea,” Easton rumbled even as his hold tightened again.

Tripp dropped his focus back to me and—unlike the tail end of the interview—there was nothing fake about his contagious smile. “You’re completely correct. I would’ve found that hilarious.” He dragged a hand through his overgrown dark hair, and though it looked effortlessly nonchalant, I got the distinct feeling he was stalling. If he was, he must’ve reached his decision about me. “And you’re also right that the interviewer pissed me off. I don’t talk about my personal life. She tried, and when I reminded her of that known fact, she pushed with some tabloid shit.”

“And the world knows you avoid behavior that would land you in the tabloids,” Easton deadpanned.

Tripp didn’t take offense to the dig. One that I was sure had to do with the club photos that were going viral at that moment.

I took a note from Easton and kept my expression blank like I had no clue what they were referring to.

My attempt failed, but it was still appreciated by Tripp. “Yeah, I was double right. I like you,andyou’re out of his league.”

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