Gutted, I fight for breath. I don’t deserve her. That look. Those words. The gratitude, the awe. Don’t fucking deserve her.
“Anjalee…shit.” I blank it all out, cover it, bury it. Can’t deal, so don’t try. I ghost my lips across hers. “Get dressed, beautiful. Daylight’s wastin’.”
I turn away before I see anything more in her face, her eyes. Before I let her see any more of me.
I shrug my tee on, socks and boots. While I’m doing this, she’s dancing into her jeans and wriggling into her shirt, over her bikini—her actual underwear are rolled up in my saddlebags.
There’s a pharmacy a few blocks away, so we walk there. I follow her through the aisles, watch as she spends five fucking minutes deciding on a brush. Then, with her selection in hand, finally, she looks at me. “May I get a few other things, please? Only a few essentials. Deodorant, lip gloss, some elastics for my hair, like this.”
I laugh at her, she’s so fuckin’ cute. “Babe.”
She huffs, annoyed. “How many times do I tell you—”
I cut her off. “Get what you want, Anjalee.”
“I do not want to assume upon your generosity.”
This melts me. “Darlin’. It’s not generosity. It’s just livin’. You need some shit, get some shit.” I cup her jaw. “I can’t trick you out in fuckin’ Chanel and all that shit, but I ain’t hurtin’, not by any stretch. Okay?”
“Okay, Kane.”
“Good.”
She spends another ten or fifteen minutes getting whatever girly shit she needs—I’m watching her, not what she’s getting. I don’t give a shit. There’s makeup, a couple travel-size bottles that I think are for her hair, deodorant, a nail file and clippers—I notice, also, that everything she’s getting will fit into the purse I got her. This impresses me.
When we’re done, we hit a little breakfast and lunch diner I noticed yesterday. She gets a bowl of Greek yogurt with berries and granola, and a side of wheat toast. I get pancakes, an omelet, and a side of bacon.
She’s eyeing my pancakes, I notice.
I grab one of the little side plates and slap my last pancake on it, slide it to her. “All you gotta do is ask, honey.”
She hesitates. “It is your breakfast.”
“You want it.”
“Well, yes. I have never had your American pancakes.”
I blink. “You…what?”
“Pappa, he does not travel without his chef. So, at home, or traveling, I do not ever eat…” She waves around us with her spoon. “Places like this. Or room service. Restaurants? Rarely, and always the best.”
“Gotta be shittin’ me.”
She sniffs a laugh. “Why would I shit you on such a thing?”
“Your dad travels with a personal chef?”
“Yes.”
I just laugh. “Damn, girl. I knew rich people are weird, but shit. That’s next level.” I hand her a fork. “Eat the pancake and rejoice.”
She sets her spoon in the nearly empty bowl, takes the fork, cuts a small sliver. I watch her mouth, watch her lips—now clean of the deep red lipstick, and just her natural color, a few shades lighter than her skin—wrap around the fork.
Her eyes fly wide and she covers her mouth with her wrist as she speaks. “Ohhhmy. That iswonderful.”
I laugh, shake my head. “Welcome to life for the ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent, babe.”
She frowns. “I do not understand.”
