Page 94 of Betting on the Bad Boy
“But he sent you flowers.”
“Yeah, so what?”
Dante let my foot fall back onto the bed. “Whoever he is dropped some serious dough on those roses.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, when a guy gives a girl flowers like that, he expects something in return.”
I pictured Carter earnestly spilling his heart over oysters at the marina, and then spilling the contents of his stomach over the table. “I promise you, it’s not what you think.”
Dante shifted closer to me on the bed, and my body rolled toward him. “And what do you think I think?”
“I think you think too much.” I groaned. “Can’t you just let it go?”
“Whatever’s going on between us, it’s more than just sex.” Dante’s hand came to rest on my thigh, sending a zing of anticipation to where I wanted to feel his touch the most. “I mean, the sex is great, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something more.”
I hummed to myself, trying to drown him out—a childish move, but maybe it would work. I’d never admit he was right.My plan didn’t have room for a relationship, at least not until I became a tenured professor. Maybe it was time to call things off.
“Just untie me. Now, please.”
Dante continued, “Try telling me you don’t have feelings for me.”
“I don’t have feelings for you,” I growled through gritted teeth as I bit my bottom lip. A little white lie, no big deal. “Are you happy?”
“You’re lying.”
A sharp laugh broke free from my chest. “How can you tell? You don’t know me at all.”
That was the problem. No one knew who I really was. I didn’t even know myself anymore. I’d spent so long hiding under the layers of my mother’s cloak of fame, I wasn’t sure I could ever break free. At least not without hurting the people I loved.
Scratch that. I loved my mom and even Clem. But if I came out of hiding as Chastity Austen, the person I might end up hurting the most was sitting right next to me. And love? I didn’t love Dante Bishop.
Did I?
“You think I don’t know you?” His fingers fiddled with the tie on my ankle. “Your favorite beer is Honeyweiss, but only on tap.”
I rolled my eyes. “You got me. Yep, you really know me.”
“And you’re superstitious and love the number thirteen.” He released my other foot.
“I flat out told you that.”
He walked around the bed and untied my wrist. “You’re stubborn as hell and would do anything for your friends.”
I blew a raspberry.
“You’ve got a wicked sense of humor, have a talent for handling Meemaw, and never fail to call me on my bullshit.” He climbed onto the bed and hovered over me as he untied the otherwrist. His thumb brushed over my lower lip. “You always bite your lower lip when you lie.”
“You’re wrong, Dante.” I rubbed my wrists and bit my lip.
His mouth covered mine, and he nipped at my bottom lip. “You’re lying, Faith.”
I mumbled into his neck, “I don’t want to talk anymore. If you want out, just say so.”
He drew back, and I could just make out the edges of his face in the dim light coming in from the parking lot outside my window. “I don’t want out, Faith. I want you.”
I took in a deep gulp of air, suddenly feeling bare and exposed, and pulled the sheet over me. What was wrong with me? Wasn’t this what most women wanted?
