Page 70 of Rebellious

“Hell no,” I bark. “You’re not leaving the house dressed like that.” I wave a hand up and down her body, clarifying that the sleep shorts and t-shirt is a no-go.

She glances down at her clothes. “It’s shorts and a t-shirt. You think people will know they are pajamas?”

This girl. “I think the fact they are short enough to be boy shorts is the actual issue.”

Her brows furrow. “Fine. I won’t get out.”

“That’s a fact if you insist on wearing those clothes.”

She shrugs. “It’s midnight and I’m comfortable.”

And gorgeous with her wet hair looking darker as it falls in waves against her shoulder, leaving a wet imprint on her shirt.

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me in pajamas?”

I snort. “Not at all. That’s not what I meant.”

This conversation is going nowhere. Aspen won’t change her clothes out of principle now.

She cocks her head to the side, dangling the keys. “Well now that we got that out of the way, are you driving, or am I?”

I eat up the space between us in a few long strides and pluck the keys from her fingers. “I gave in to the pajamas. Don’t push it.” I don’t even mention allowing her to drive the jet ski earlier.

She knows she’s a crazy driver. Her road rage is worse than Fenn’s.

“After you then.” She pulls open the door and reluctantly, I go first. The door closes behind us as we’re greeted with warm night air.

“I’m thinking something crazy greasy,” she says, making her way to the passenger seat.

“If that’s what you want,” I tell her.

She gets into the SUV and I follow, waiting for her to buckle up.

“What are you going to eat?” she asks, clipping her belt into place.

I shrug. “Most anywhere should have a salad.”

Her face scrunches. “I forgot you had a beer earlier.”

I did, and it was full of wheat, which is full of carbs. And when you’re a Type 1 diabetic, carbs are not your friend.

“Get what you want, Asp,” I say, starting the engine and pulling out of the driveway. “I’ll be fine with a salad.”

Honestly, I’m used to it. Rarely do I get any type of craving for sweets or carbs, but Aspen does, and she feels guilty if she eats them in front of me.

“But—”

I turn on the music and drown out any argument she can come up with. “Think about it while we ride…” I flash her a wink. “In silence.”

About fifteen minutes later, we cruise into town. Only a handful of fast-food restaurants are lit up at this hour. “Did you decide?” I ask her.

She glances up from her phone. “None of them are that great for you.”

I shake my head. “You’re not going into the grocery store in those shorts.” I know how her mind and guilt works.

She chews on the inside of her lip. “Wait!”

I groan as she tosses her phone down and reaches into the back seat, coming back with my gym bag. “Come on, Asp.” I groan. “I haven’t washed those yet.”

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