Page 217 of The Night Shift
“Exactly.”
“Rude.” He shuts the door before circling around.
I pull out my phone, typing fast.
Holly: Rain check on pizza? Dinner’s back on. I’ll let you know if there are any updates about the stalker.
Cami’s response is instantaneous. A thumbs-up emoji.
Theo slides into the driver’s seat, one arm still in a sling.
“So, where exactly are you taking me? I need to lower my expectations accordingly.”
He leans over with his good hand to buckle my seatbelt and presses a quick kiss to the pulse point on my neck. “Patience is a virtue, you know.”
“So is self-preservation.”
“I know you, Holly. Trust me. You’re going to enjoy tonight.”
“I just don’t want to go somewhere fancy. I’m wearing jeans.”
“I noticed.” He glances over, smirking. “Can’t wait to peel them off you later.”
“Can you stop being an asshole for one second and just tell me where we’re going for dinner? I like studying the menu beforehand.”
“We’re not going to dinner first.”
Huh? “Then where?”
He sinks back into his seat, buckles himself in, and starts the engine. “Someplace to build an appetite.”
* * *
“You ready?” he murmurs behind me. His hand stays firm over my eyes. Steady and confident, like he knows I won’t pull away.
“To kick you in the balls once I get my sight back? Absolutely.”
He laughs. His hand lifts from my eyes in one smooth, unhurried motion and I stare at the tattered sign on the wall: WELCOME TO NEW YORK’S #1 RAGE ROOM! 60 MINUTES TO LET OUT ALL YOUR STRESS!
Theo already has our coveralls in one hand and a black baseball bat with colorful graffiti all over it tucked under his arm.
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say.
He hands me a pair of coveralls, smiling from ear to ear,looking entirely too pleased with himself and clearly unbothered by the fact that he’s now in a closed room with a mentally unhinged colleague, surrounded by objects she could use to stab him in the neck — glass bottles, ceramics, laptops, and … is that a fucking TV set?
“You like it?” he asks.
“This is by far the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Untrue.” He helps me with the zip. “You, my love, are the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stupid?”
“My love,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I am not yours.”
“No?” Amusement shimmers through his voice. He loops one hand around my waist, pulling me close.
