Page 43 of Dash

“Don’t make me strangle you with his stolen hoodie.”

“Kinky.”

“Only for you. Now, go to bed. You need to be rested and ready for the next round.”

Warmth spreads through me at the thought of him coming back, hanging around my flat, his boots at the side of my couch, his kutte draped on the back of the chair.

Yeah, I could get used to that.

“Night, Katie.”

“Night, my beautiful friend. May your dreams be full of bikers and orgasms.”

The line goes dead. I shake my head, but before I put my phone down, I open my messages. It’s a little desperate, a little bit needy, but I send him a message.

Hope you got home okay.

I delete that.

Thanks for last night and today. If you want to try something not out of a box, I make a really good lasagna. You want to share it with me? Thursday night?

I hit send and instantly regret it.

Does Dash even eat lasagna? Of course he does. It’s just food. Maybe I should have made something different. Maybe I should have?—

My phone vibrates, and I snatch it up.

Dash:

I’ll bring garlic bread.

And this time, I don’t try to stop my grin.

By the time Thursday rolls around, I’m a bag of nerves. I use the little money I would usually spend going out and drinking my problems away to buy ingredients.

I don’t know why it matters so much. Dash doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who cares about dinner dates and perfect meals. He’s a guy who grabs your throat and bends you over the counter while the food burns.

But I want to impress him. I never wanted to impress a man in my life.

I get dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a sleeveless top before I pull his hoodie on like a security blanket.

Our messages this week have been flirty, but his are always filled with care. He wants to make sure I’m eating, sleeping, looking after myself. I’ve missed him.

Preparation goes off without a hitch, and the lasagna is baking away when there’s a knock on my door. I freeze. He is not due for another half-hour. Maybe he missed me too.

My heart soars at the idea that he might have turned up early because he wants to see me.

“Seriously, you’re putting feminism back fifty fucking years with this giddy routine,” I mutter under my breath, but I can’t stop my smile as I wipe my hands on the tea towel and head for the door.

When I open it, my smile dies. It’s not Dash standing on my doorstep. It’s my fucking mother.

My heart sinks as she scans me from head to toe, taking in my clothes with a look of disdain on her face. “Are you auditioning for tragic and poor? It looks like you fished your outfit out of some sad bargain bin.”

It feels as if she cuts open my stomach and is watching the blood pour onto the floor. Of course, she hates what I’m wearing—it’s not diamonds and pearls. It’s not designer. She doesn’t care about the meaning behind Dash’s hoodie, about the way it makes me feel safe, seen. All she cares about is how I look and appear to the world.

Her world.

“Hello to you too,” I mutter, shutting the door behind her when she steps into my hallway uninvited. “Did you just come round to insult me, or did you actually want something? Because I’m actually kind of busy.”

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