Page 53 of Carry On
“Finish eating,” Lincoln ordered. “And then we’re going shopping.”
“The fuck we are,” I retorted. There was no way in hell I was letting this man take me shopping.
“Let me put this in the most delicate way possible,” he began, setting his fork down as he gave me the full brunt of his stare. The intensity in those pretty blues didn’t bode well for what was coming next. “You look like a homeless man.”
“Iama homeless man,” I pointed out.
“But you’re not anymore. You live here,” he said. Fuck. “And, considering how I dress, you can’t dress how you dress.”
I didn’t like that concept at all.
“Rule number one,” I growled.
“I’m not changing you. I’m changing your clothes.”
“That’s changing me.”
“No, that’s making sure you have clean clothes,” he replied. “I don’t care what you wear, but you need new clothes, Nash. After, we’re stopping by a friend’s office to get a contract notarized, one that legally makes this your place of residence and expedites our ability to change your address with the postal system. It’ll also let us take you to the DMV to update your ID.”
Fuck, I hated this.
“You need a legal ID to get married and to get insurance,” he continued as he read my expression.
“You’re just going all in on this, aren’t you?” I asked. Stupid man with all the details figured out.
“I strive to be efficient and thorough when I set a goal,” Lincoln said. Of course he did. The overachiever. “Now, eat something. We have a long day ahead of us.”
CHAPTER 38
LINCOLN
Iwantedtobemadat the man for mostly buying flannel, but he looked so damn good in it that I had a hard time being pissed at him. Taking Nash shopping had been a feat. Difficult didn’t begin to encompass how infuriating this man was at every turn throughout the day. A part of me understood why. This was a change for him. It was a huge shift in his lifestyle.
I could concede that.
But on the other hand, he was here. He agreed to this. That made his resistance harder to understand.
By the end of it all, rule number four was created: no more fucking shopping. He was in for a rude awakening when I told him we still had to get a goddamn suit for this fake wedding of ours.
It did leave me questioning if I was taking this too far. Maybe the whole thing was a stupid idea. I had no desire to lose everything because of insurance fraud, just because I wanted to help him. This middle ground of making our story solid made sense to me. It protected me, but it also protected him.
When I tried to initiate a discussion about what the hell we told people if they asked how we met, he shut me down angrily. Rule number five: no more stupid questions, winging it.
I wasn’t a fan of that rule.
The rest of our day was spent in an awkward kind of begrudging silence. We ran errands together to get things in order, and he grew more irate with each one.
By the time we got back, he had clothes, he had a legal document proclaiming my condo as his place of residence, and he had an ID. He stormed inside, throwing shit into his room without a word, while I tried to figure out what to do next.
”What do you want for dinner?” I called out.
“Stop trying to fucking feed me,” Nash snarled. The dangerous edge in his voice made my skin prickle, and I bit back a frustrated sound.
“If—”
“Shut the fuck up, Lincoln,” he cut me off.
I did exactly that and just watched while he stomped right back out of the condo, slamming the door hard. That singular sound made me cringe—made me flinch as my stomach knotted anxiously. I hated it. Fuck, I hated that shit like that still affected me.
