"You’re embarrassing me," she mumbles, cheeks pink, but she doesn’t mean it. She loves this lovey dovey shit, and nothing will convince me otherwise.
"Good,” I say, shrugging out of my hoodie and tugging it over her head before she can argue. She rolls her eyes but pushes the sleeves up and keeps it on, the hem dusting her lower thighs.
She adjusts it, smoothing the front. She looks ridiculous and beautiful and so fucking mine.
There’s something possessive and primal about seeing her wrapped in my clothes, and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. My name and number on her back is a sight to see. My scent clinging to her. It triggers something deep in me, some ancient need to mark her as mine in every way I can.
"You don’t like my dress, cowboy?" she bats her eyes at me, and she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
"That’s the problem, baby. I like it so much I want it, and everything underneath it, for myself."
She rolls her eyes, but then says, "You know I’ve had this dress since high school. It’s my favorite."
I smirk. "I know that. I broke Kenny Collier’s arm for saying you had a sweet ass when you wore it one time."
She stares at me. "Wait, what? You’re serious?"
"Dead serious," I say, stepping closer. "I was a senior, and you were a sophomore. He made a comment in the locker room. I heard about it and saw red."
"I remember when he broke his arm. Everyone was speculating about it. We thought he got into a fight after sneaking into a bar with a fake I.D."
"Yeah, that’s what he told people,” I tell her, laughing. He was such a skeezy motherfucker.
She laughs lightly, placing her hand on my chest. "You looked so sour about it. Why the face?"
I scowl. "I hated that you cared what happened to him."
"We didn’t care," she says, her voice soft and teasing. "We just thought he was lying, so that’s why we were always asking about it. He creeped my friends and me out so bad."
"He was lying. I beat the fuck out of him,” I tell her, shrugging.
Her smile fades a little. "You really don’t play about me."
I lower my voice, stepping in close. "Never have. He was out of line. And he’s lucky I didn’t kill him."
She swallows hard, cheeks flushed, and I take her hand.
The drive out of town is quiet. She plays with the petals of the bouquet in her lap, and I glance over every few minutes just to reassure myself she’s real and here with me.
"You didn’t have to bring flowers," she says softly.
"I wanted to."
"Daisies are my favorite," she adds. "But they’re underrated. Everyone always picks roses. Did you ask my parents or something?"
"I know because you told me,” I tell her, and I don’t mean to sound as exasperated as the words come out.
She raises an eyebrow. "When? Most of our interactions involve you popping up out of nowhere to comment on my clothes."
I smirk. "Summer at your grandmother’s. Her backyard had that big field. You picked daisies for her, said they were your favorite because they’re simple and beautiful. I remember."
She stares at me. "You remembered that?"
"I remember everything you’ve ever said to me, bambi. It’s burned in my memory. Just like you."
She’s about to say something when my phone rings.
Ramsey.
