Page 95 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
I take a swig from my drink, hoping that a little liquid courage will keep my confidence from fraying at the edges. I’m still like a schoolgirl with a hopeless crush, losing all sense of cool when Gage fucking Arlington sneaks loving stares my way, just as smitten with me as I am with him—but a lot more obvious about it.
My mind lags, so overfilled with emotion that I forget we’re even having a conversation. I’m too self-conscious of the way my heart’s bruising itself against my sternum, pounding so loud that it could blow out a silent stadium.
Gage uncharacteristically chews the bottom of his lip, the surrounding flesh reddening with irritation. “Do you like it? Oh, God. Did I overdo it? Is it too much?” He panics, probablyseconds away from sweeping this whole spread up and asking me exactly what I want.
“Huh? No! Oh, no. Gage, it’s perfect,” I reassure him, reaching over to grab his hand. We’re not seated that far away from each other, but it feels like my skin’s crawling with fire ants whenever I’m not touching him. “I’m just…I can’t believe you went out of your way to do this.”
“I think you underestimate the things I’d do for you. I’d move mountains if you asked me to, Cali.”
Tears begin to ball behind my eyes—stupid tears!—and his words pack so much punch that they would’ve knocked me on my ass if I wasn’t sitting on it. If my head didn’t already get the memo, my body’s definitely made it its life goal to yell at me,Hey, stupid lady! You’re in love with this boy!
I mean, I am, aren’t I? And it’s not just because he treats me like a princess and spends his hard-earned money on impromptu dates. It’s because of who he is. It’s because Gage is always there for me, even when I don’t want him to be. It’s because Gage always puts me first, even when I put myself last. It’s because Gage believes in me and supports me, even when I don’t think I deserve it.
God, he’s just…this man means everything to me.
Love tugs at my guts, turns my tongue loose, and feeds gasoline to a fire that wants nothing more than to burn for all eternity in his presence, keeping him warm even on the coldest of days. “Thank you. This is the best date I could’ve possibly asked for.”
He smiles in relief, brushing his thumb over the back of my knuckles like he always does, and I never expected that this sweet, timid side of Gage would make me so insanely giddy. He’s singlehandedly drop-kicked my heart all the way to Timbuktu.
Gage got me avery cheesylasagna, one with gooey cheese stringing down the sides, seeping into layers of perfectly cooked,soft noodle beds. They ooze with little globs of tomato sauce, ultimately topped off with a mouthwatering crust of burnt cheese, flecks of parsley, and a hearty powdering of parmesan. Two halves of garlic bread steam on the rim of my plate, glistening with a fine coat of butter.
I drop his hand to pick up my fork, cutting the hunk of lasagna into smaller squares, but Gage interrupts me. “Wait.”
“What?”
“Let me feed you.”
I almost burst out laughing. “Gage, that’s ridiculous.”
Though it seems I’ve suffered another foot-in-mouth incident because my response misses its mark by (apparently) a wide margin. Gage has this little valley right between his brows, and his mouth is weighed down with a particularly heavy-looking frown.
“You’re serious?” I choke out.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. I don’t want to poke the bear, but he can’t be mad at me for being a little confused. “Why?—”
“I don’t do romantic date nights, Cali. I don’t do romance. Period. I’m trying something here, with every belief that it’s bound to go sideways. Humor me, please. Let me romance the fuck out of you tonight,” he implores, meaning every word of it with the fiber of his being.
Normally I’d refuse him with some very clever wordplay, but goddammit, Cupid’s taken my eye out with his fucking arrow. Still reeling in disbelief, I surrender my fork to him.
But he doesn’t take it.
The carved lines of his face fall to candle-made shadows, and something unidentifiable lurks underneath the depths of his darkening green irises. “Want you on my lap, Spitfire. Then I can feed you.”
There’s really no room for argument. It’s a demand—a soft one—but still a demand.
I glance down at the thick thighs beckoning me, and my mouth salivates for an entirely different reason. Gage has officially made me a powerless excuse for a woman. I’m gonna fold like a poker player with a bad hand whenever it comes to him.
Having swallowed any chance at a comeback, I crawl over to him and plant myself in his lap, feeling more than secured with the width of his legs cushioning my ass. And it’s then that I wish I’d worn something cuter than my boring outfit of a plain shirt and jeans.
Gage doesn’t care at all, though. He still looks at me like I’m wearing the most gorgeous, one-of-a-kind, cost-a-whole-month’s-rent dress. I’m sitting on the meat of his thigh so I don’t sit directly on his, um,gearshift, and he loops one arm around my waist to hold me in place. He then picks up a sizable piece of lasagna on the tines of my fork, eases it between my lips, and watches with hooded eyes at the way my mouth closes around it.
I don’t know what I love more—the food or the lust smoldering in his eyes. Jesus. No wonder this Italian restaurant was so expensive. I thought Gage was lying about the inconceivably high prices. The lasagna tastes like something that my poor tastebuds have never even fathomed. It’s so rich that everything disintegrates into melted mush beneath my teeth, and the flavors blend together in an equally intoxicating fusion of tangy tomato and creamy cheese. I moan involuntarily, too blissed out to feel Gage’s legs shift beneath me.
The fork clatters to the plate and Gage grinds his teeth together, making a strangled noise that sounds like some kind of inhuman hiss. “Baby, you can’t be making those noises when you’re sitting on my lap.”
I have to blink a few times to understand what he’s saying,and then embarrassment drips down my nape, combining with the cold sweat now clamming up my forehead. “Sorry.”
