Page 91 of Forgotten Comeback
“Aww, did I bruise your ego?” And maybe I didn’t think the date would happen. Not that Gavin isn’t a good fighter, but I didn’t realize someone could be knocked out that damn fast.
“Yes,” he says, and I think he’s being genuine.
I nudge him with my shoulder. “Maybe you needed the ball busting, because I’ve never seen you move like that.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“Like a man on fire.”
I must have said something wrong, because the entire mood of the vehicle shifts; darkens.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
“Yeah,” he says, flipping on the radio.
I examine Gavin as he keeps his eyes on the road. He uses his fuckboy charm and easygoing nature as a shield, and I realize there’s more to the man beneath the surface.
Gavin catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “You really wanna play the psychoanalysis game with me?”
“I still don’t want to play any games with you, Gavin.” And since I use my own resting bitch face as a shield of my own, no, I don’t want to play the psychoanalysis game.
“Uh-huh,” he drawls, and I force my attention out the window.
We arrive at the boardwalk, and Gavin parks, hustling around and opening my door for me. He extends his hand, and I ignore it as I climb out and adjust my dress. “Please don’t tell me you’re taking me to the Diamond.” I heft my bag over my shoulder, only for Gavin to snatch it and hang it from his.
“Nope.”
“Then where are we going?”
He closes my door and grabs my hand before I can stop him.
On a sigh, I examine our entwined hands. “Your knuckles don’t look as bad this time. Maybe the man will be able to feed himself.”
Gavin
“Here’s to hoping.” In fact, I’m hoping to feed myself later on Taylor’s pussy.
The woman accused me of being a careless lover. Maybe she was right, but I’m willing to learn what makes her tick, inside and outside the bedroom.
And dammit, maybe I want her towantto do the same for me.
Refusing to release Taylor’s hand, I lead us down the boardwalk and to the amusement park pier.
She eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t comment as we enter through the neon archway, and I stash her bag in a locker. Next stop, the ticket booth. “Two wristbands,” I tell the same teenager who was working the other night I followed Taylor.
He’s still drooling over her as I slide the cash through the slot, and he rings up the sale and gives us our bands.
Tearing off the paper square, I stick the band around Taylor’s delicate wrist before doing the same on mine.
“Rides or food first?” My eyes meet hers. She either knows or suspects I was stalking her. Her hair’s in a messy bun, and I use my fingers to push an escaped strand behind her ear. “I’m not going to apologize for it.”
“You’re a psychopath,” she whispers.
I lean closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, loving the way her neck arches. “Which ride?”
“Come on.” She laces her fingers with mine, leading me to the roller coaster.
It does dumb shit to my head.
