Chapter 18

eighteen

Wrenlee

I dig my heels in as soon as I realize where we’re headed. Every limb locks and I know my eyes are comically wide. But this isn’t happening. He can’t be—he can’t be serious right now?

“Cash!” I snap, resisting the pull he has on my hand for the first time since he linked us together. “No.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Kitten.”

I sputter. “You’re insane. I’m not going in there with you. No way.”

My skin is on fire. Hot pokers have skewered my nerves, twisting them over a raging flame. I’m going to die of humiliation.

“Wrenlee.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

My eyes lift in horror to the mannequin in the window—the one wearing the strappy little lace thing I wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“I don’t need that stuff.” I try to appeal to his reason, even though the man has proven time and again today that he has none. “I like my beer shirts.”

“So do I.” When he lets his eyes land and linger on me, I don’t feel like I’m dressed from head to toe in fabric. I feel like every stitch has been burned off, leaving me hot and bothered and vulnerable.

I don’t like it.

Okay, I tell myself I don’t like it. I also have the sense to know that I’m lying to myself. Something I’ve never done before Cash. Something I do a lot now.

A grin hitches his lips and I’m about to start lying into him when he says gently, “You hardly have any clothes, Kitten. You’re doing laundry every three days, so I figure you don’t have a lot of under—” His finger waves at my body. “Things.”

My face is on fire. “I’m going in alone.”

“Naw.”

“Cash, please.”

He looks like he’s going to say no, and I seriously think I’m going to die when he finally nods.

“Fine.” He doesn’t look happy as he gestures to a lounge area that is conveniently situated outside the store. There are more than a few guys waiting, most anxiously looking anywhere but at the lacy underthings in the window. I’d bet the very last dollar in my bank account that each and every one of them made the choice to wait outside, not willing to peruse the shop with their girls. Cash, I decide, is a freak. “I’ll be right there.”

I nod, relieved beyond measure. The idea of shopping for underwear with Cash is enough to make me die right here, right now. “Thank you.”

Endeavoring to be quick, I scurry away from the man and into the store. I don’t look back. If I do, he’ll see how red my face is. I’m so hot, I’m seconds away from eruption. A pretty section of lacy pink bras catches my attention, and I take a moment to cool down as I finger the pretty fabric. This is not a cheap store. In fact, this is one of the last stores I’d choose to buy underthings from, but since Cash bought everything else today, I feel okay splurging on a bra and a few sets of underwear.

As the heat in my cheeks fades and my heart-rate begins to slow, the unsteady drum of it lessoning between my ears, I find myself in an entirely new dilemma.

It’s after lunch on a Saturday, and the mall—this store included—is packed with people. And I don’t know my bra size. It’s been forever since I shopped for new bras and panties. The last time had been while I’d lived at home, and I’d picked from the limited selection at the local department store.

This store doesn’t even compare.

Nervously, I glance around for someone to help me, locking eyes with a tall man who clearly works here as he’s wearing the same black shirt with the glittery pink writing that every other staff member wears. He smiles broadly and heads my way with a cheery, “How can I help you today?”

Returning his cheer with a shaky smile of my own, I square my shoulders. “I’m not sure what size I am. Double D, I think. Beyond that…” I lift my hands in a ‘no clue’ gesture.

“Ah.” He claps nimble hands together. I notice, unlike Cash’s hands, this man’s hands are soft and nearly delicate. “I can help you with that. Or we can wait for a female attendant, if that makes you more comfortable. Unfortunately, all our females are currently occupied with other customers, but it won’t take long.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I assure him, and then I smile, because he is kind and I feel at ease. “You’ll do.”

“Great.” He plucks a measuring tape from his pocket. “Stand straight for me, honey.” The way he says ‘honey’ makes me smile. He says it like old Mrs. Bets from across the street says it every time she catches even a glimpse of me. It’s friendly and comforting and filled with warmth. “Like that. Breathe even, now.”

As he stands back to note the size on his tape, I feel a big presence at my back. Clearly my helper feels it too, because his eyes shift up, up, and up again. Cash.

My body stiffens. The color drains from my face.

“Can we help you?” The happy man asks.

“Nope.” The way Cash says that one word sounds like a threat.

“O—kay.” Happy man pulls away from me and declares, “Thirty-two double D.”

Huh, I’ve lost weight since I’ve been in New York. I’d been a thirty-six before coming here. It’s no surprise, really. This city holds the power to eat the soul right out of a girl, stripping the flesh from the bones along the way.

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing. Will there be anything else I can assist you with?”

“We’re good.” Cash rejects the help, and I feel my cheeks heat as happy guy looks between the two of us with a grin that turns oh-so-knowing, even though he’s oh-so-wrong.

“Of course. You two have fun, now.” And with that, happy guy is gone.

I don’t even turn to Cash. He doesn’t deserve acknowledging at this point.

I start for the wall of practical, although still cute, t-shirt bras. I select two before Cash murmurs, “He was flirting with you.”

This makes me roll my eyes. “He wasn’t.”

“Any man’s got his hands on you with his face in your tits, he’s got ideas,” Cash informs bluntly. “He’s got ideas, he’s flirting.”

“He wasn’t, I assure you. But even if he was, so what?”

Cash stops. I feel the freeze and do my best to ignore it. “So what?”

“Yeah, so what?” I spin to lock eyes with his. “I wasn’t flirting back.”

“Not what it looked like through the window, Kitten.” He leans in dangerously. “I don’t share.”

“I wasn’t flirting with him, Cash.” I don’t flirt with anyone.

“Gave him that pretty smile.” He chucks my chin. “That’s flirting.”

I can’t help it; I roll my eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

For a moment, confliction passes through his dark gaze. Like he honestly doesn’t know what he’s doing. Finally, after a few beats of charged space ticks by, he murmurs softly with a deadly undercurrent lingering just beneath the surface, threatening to pull me under. “It’s becoming clear that I’m a jealous man, Kitten. I don’t like it, can’t stop it, won’t even try. Is what it is, so don’t toy with me.” He leans in and I can taste the danger in his breath, as though it’s a part of him. Stitched into the fabric of his being. “I won’t take kindly to it, and there will be consequence for the sorry suck you choose to give my smiles to. This is your last warning.”

On that last warning, I take a quick step back. Alarm bells ring in my mind as flutters swirl in my belly. A memory of sitting in the kitchen with one of my girlfriend’s comes to mind, the sound of Mrs. Lauren’s voice a crisp memory, “A man who gives you flutters is rarely the man you want for you. A woman is built with a magic tool I like to call intuition. Every woman has it. It’s weaved into her from conception. It’s a part of her, as deep and pure as the soul. But not every woman learns to listen to her intuition. Some even mistake its warnings for good. But you see, I believe intuition is a woman’s greatest strength. It tells us of danger before danger is visible. It tells us we should be on guard, even though there have been no warnings. And sometimes, when we like a boy—a boy who might be bad for us—dangerous for us, that very powerful tool gives us butterflies. A flutter in our bellies that many mistake as good, thrilling. Some even chase those flutters, though I have no idea why. Those flutters, girls, are a warning from your intuition. You’ll feel it deep in here.” She touched a hand to her belly, pressing. “More often than not, it means danger is close. If a man is giving you those flutters, it very well could mean that he’s not a good man for you. Instead, I recommend looking for a man who makes you feel safe and secure and respected. Whose absence of flutters you view as a good thing.” She smiled gently as she turned to the door of the room we’d been gushing over boys and butterflies in. “Listen to your intuition, it won’t steer you off course. Not ever.”

“You make me feel butterflies,” I whisper, my eyes never leaving his.

His brows slant in confusion, then he grins slow. “Good.”

I shake my head, shaken. “Not good.”

His brows dip deeper, and he cocks his head to the side. “Girls like butterflies.”

“Butterflies are intuition,” I feel my voice quiver. “Intuition is a woman’s first warning that something isn’t right. That—that she may be in danger.” Something dark passes over his expression. I feel another flutter and swallow hard. “Girls mistake butterflies as good, as thrilling. They mistake them for excitement and wonder, but that’s wrong.” Quietly, I say, “Did you know I felt the same flutter in my belly, to a lesser degree, I’ll admit, just now with you as I felt when I encountered a mountain lion while hiking with my father?” When he says nothing, only watches me, I continue, “It was my body telling me I was in the presence of a predator. That I should look for a way out. For escape.”

Cash steps into me, his hand lifting to the side of my face as long fingers stretch to spear into my hair. He cradles my head in his big hand, his touch a gentle contradiction to the rough in his words. “I will never hurt you. In fact, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to ensure your safety. My line is drawn at you, for you. If I thought you were in danger, there is no line I wouldn’t cross. Don’t misunderstand me, Kitten, when I say I don’t share. I won’t risk losing you to someone else. I’ll just eliminate the competition.”

“Cash…” I shake my head, dumbstruck.

“I’m not a good man. I don’t come from a good man.” He leans in so close; I can feel the brush of his lips as he speaks. “But I will always, always be good for you. So those flutters you feel, they’re not wrong. I am a dangerous man, a predator, if you will. But I’ll only ever be dangerous for you.”

I shudder against him, because my mind is whirling. My body is torn in two warring directions, and I’m confused. I want to step into him and let him absorb me the way I fear he might, if given the chance. At the same time, with the same intensity, I want to turn and run. To shield myself from the force of him. To hide like a child from a monster under her bed.

He makes the decision for me, dropping his mouth the small space it needs to touch mine. He’s whiskey and sin and cinnamon all rolled into a decadently dangerous man. It’s intoxicating and numbing and consuming and—real.

This—this game we’re playing—is starting to feel too real.

Maybe he’s playing the hero now, but will I feel he’s the hero when he pulls away from me, having gotten what he needs as he shuts me out? I’m so, so confused.

“Cash,” I whisper, the sound broken.

“Hmm.”

“I want to go home.”

Cash gets right down to giving me what I want. Right after he plucks a few more bras from the wall and a big handful of panties from the table, dropping yet another load of cash on his fake girlfriend who feels very real butterflies.