Page 111 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

I know my mom and Evie are having dinner with Vince’s parents tonight, Drea has back-to-back meetings with “industry people”—at least, I think that’s who she’s meeting with; she didn’t specify—and the boys are most likely in their man cave.

Fuck it, I’m going in.

It’ll give me a chance to pee. We’re definitely going to have ten more to-go orders by the time I get back to the restaurant, and my tiny bladder won’t make it another hour and a half.

I enter the combination on the electronic keypad and push the door open. I amble to the kitchen and scan the common areas.

Not a soul in sight.

I drop the pizza onto the countertop and race to the downstairs bathroom. I walk out shortly after, needing to find Scar so he can pay for his food.

“Nice uniform.” A deep voice startles me.

I swivel to find Kane leaning against the kitchen counter with wet hair, no shirt, and his well-defined arms folded over his chest.

He’s wearing a bathing suit, and he’s dripping wet, water running down his tattooed body. I take it he and Scar were in the pool, and that’s why they didn’t hear the doorbell.

A devilish grin curls the corners of his mouth when we make eye contact.

There’s no way he meant that, but I still go with it, cracking a small smile. “I know, right? It looks like a flamingo puked all over me.”

He laughs and pushes off the counter, cutting across the room to meet me. “How much do I owe you?”

He stops a hair too close to me, not giving a flying shit about the puddle gathering at his feet.

“Hold on.” I grab the pizza off the counter and double-check the price before telling him the total.

He nods, grabbing his wallet off the counter, and comes back with a hundred-dollar bill before handing it to me.

“I’m all out of change. Would you mind using a card? We can do Apple Pay or—”

“That’s your tip.”

I blink at him.

“That’s like a seventy-dollar tip.”

He shrugs. “And?”

I should just say yes, take his money to make up for all the tips I’m missing out on, but the thought of it doesn’t sit right with me.

“I’m good. I owe you enough as it is.”

He raises a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Is he serious?

“The art supplies?” I remind him. “It’ll take me weeks to pay you back for everything you bought.”

Realization flashes in his eyes. “I don’t want you to pay me back. It was a gift.”

I’m about to argue when he invades my space, dipping his hand into my front jeans pocket and pushing the hundred-dollar bill inside, diffusing warmth through my entire body.

I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?

He’s not going to let me leave without that tip.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to accept those supplies.

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