Chapter 31

"Good God," Cam says, shoving the oversized apple turnover into his mouth with all the grace and manners of a farmyard animal—something I only know because I'm doing the same with my apple-cinnamon donut.

And seriously, I love the fall.

Apples of all varieties.

Empty calories and refined sugar and loads of carbs accompanying them.

Fucking chef's kiss.

"If the woman wasn't married"—Molly, the owner who opened a chain of restaurants, cafes, and bakeries around the Bay Area—"I'd get on my knees and beg her to marry me," I say through another huge bite.

"I think you might have better luck if shewasn't married and you got on your knees and begged to do something else to her," Rory says innocently from next to me.

Cam freezes.

I glance at her with narrowed eyes.

Rome's mouth hitches up at the edges.

Chrissy…well, the woman who knows the other woman who's joined us in our pursuit of all these empty calories and delicious carbs the best, starts cackling.

Rory, meanwhile, takes a dainty bite of her pastry and smiles like she's an innocent angel.

"Liar," I murmur, leaning in to whisper the word in her ear. "She'd be begging me."

"Who says?" she asks, but I don't miss the little shiver, the way gooseflesh prickles on her skin.

"I say." I flick out my tongue, taste the sweetness of her and smirk when she squirms in her seat. "And I say that you want me on my knees later," I murmur, nuzzling at that oh so sensitive spot just behind her ear.

Am I aware that everyone at the table is watching?

That they've seen Rory still wearing the ring I bought her? That they know this shit is supposed to be a ruse to get my mom off my back?

Yes to all.

Do I currently give one fuck that what I'm doing is contrary to all of that?

Nope.

Not one fucking bit.

I press my lips to her skin and she squirms again. I clock another shiver wracking through her frame, know it's because of me, because of my touch. Know that I can get her to do it again later—multiple times later—then straighten, return to my donut.

I know that I'm smirking like an asshole, proud like a caveman of the reaction I coaxed from her.

And I don't give a fuck.

Same as I don't give a fuck about the knowing look that Chrissy and Rome exchange.

Probably because the truth of what I feel for Rory is there in my belly, my heart, my soul.

She's different.

I can be different with her.

I can be…myself.

I didn't get the chance to tell her that last night, considering she worked late.

Nor this morning, when Rome and Cam and Chrissy descended on my house and the allure of the delicious delights of Molly's had drawn us out of bed after only two orgasms for her.

And I'm going to make sure she knows she can do the same.

"Hmm," she murmurs as she delicately sets her apple tart down, mischief in her eyes before she looks away and wipes her fingers on a napkin. She turns enough to settle her hand on my thigh, her slender fingers burning like a brand through my jeans. "Or maybe you want me on my knees," she murmurs, hand sneaking higher.

My dick goes hard.

Just like that.

Rock fucking hard.

And I know if I don't get her to behave herself, I'm going to take that hand of hers, peel it from my thigh, and haul that sexy ass off to the bathroom.

And make her shiver.

And moan.

I capture that misbehaving hand and lace our fingers together, lifting it so I can press a kiss to the back of it.

Then I settle it back onto my thigh and lean close again. "Behave," I order softly.

More mischief in green eyes, along with a dash of stubbornness.

Of…prickliness.

The Cactus Queen about to make her appearance.

I grin, tap the tip of her nose, murmur, "Or do you only take orders in the bedroom, princess?"

Her nails bite into the fabric of my jeans.

And…yup. I want to be naked, want to feel that bite on my bare skin, want?—

"Kingston?"

Rory goes ramrod stiff next to me, but I'm so busy doing the same at the sound of the slightly abrasive, nasally voice I'd endured for several hours on a date my mom had set up for me a few months back that I hardly notice it.

Because—

"Oh my God, Kingston, it is you!"

A taloned hand reaches forward, gripping my shoulder with so much force that I have to release Rory or risk both of our chairs toppling backward. I squeeze her fingers, settle her hand back in her own lap, then push my chair back and stand, turning to greet?—

"Stacy," I say, hoping I manage to keep the dread from my voice, my expression as I lean in and press a kiss to her cheek.

And nearly choke on her perfume.

Jesus.

I lean back, even though she seems to want to linger close, those long, fake nails digging into my shoulders.

Thankfully, I'm stronger—albeit not by much, considering the force it takes to break this woman's grip.

"How are you?" I say when I'm clear of the cloud of her perfume.

Her bottom lip comes out, and I know she's going for a cute pout.

The trouble is…it isn't cute.

It's annoying as shit.

I'd seen it pulled no less than a dozen times in the couple of hours we spent over a meal together—the final time being when I'd put her in a Lyft and sent her on her way.

Alone.

Hoping to never see her again.

And…yet here we are.

"I'm terrible"—pout—"especially since I haven't seen you"—another pout—"since our dinner together."

Where she ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, took all of two bites of it, was rude to the waiter, and spent more time taking a selfie than talking to me.

Yeah, I'm not a fan.

Nor that my mom is friends with Stacy's mom, Cathy.

"Life got busy," I say, snagging the top of my chair, putting a little distance between us. I hitch a thumb over my shoulder. "Well, it was good to see you, but I should?—"

For the first time, those predatory eyes move from me, seeming to notice that I'm not alone at the table.

I almost laugh at the excitement blooming on her face when her eyes hit on the men—puck bunny extraordinaire, this one—and the almost immediate subsequent sneer that takes its place when she sees Chrissy.

But it's the fury replacing that when her gaze drifts to Rory that has me taking a step to the right, putting myself between my princess and the woman who looks ready to gouge her eyes out with those long, red talons.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Stacy says in frosty, clipped-out words.

Not to me.

To…Rory.

"Hi, Stacy," she replies quietly. "You're looking well."

And I fucking hate that I've heard that tone before.

That it was the same one she'd used with that asshole of hers.

Stacy doesn't respond—or not verbally anyway. Instead, her gaze drifts down Rory from head to toe in a long, slow drag, her mouth curving into a derisive sneer that has me clenching my back teeth together.

Then she sniffs, clearly dismissing Rory as she turns back to me.

And yeah, no, that doesn't work for me.

Neither does the way her hands are contracted into claws, like she'll cut a bitch if Rory dares so much as move.

"As you can see," I begin quietly, and although the words aren't loud, I make sure to inject plenty of ice into my tone.

You fuck with Rory—who seems to know your skinny ass for some reason—and you fuck with me.

And I'm a hell of a lot meaner.

Something I make evident in my eyes when Stacy glances back in my direction.

The veneer between fake sweet and bitch is being scrubbed away.

And yeah, no, I'm not going to expose Rory to that.

"As you can see," I say again, drawing my chair back and starting to sit down, "we're eating. It was good to see you, though." I plunk my ass down, turn my back on her.

Dismissing her.

Unfortunately, she doesn't go away.

"What are you doing here?" she snaps.

Not directed at me.

At Rory.

Who's gone even stiffer, whose hands are clenched into tight fists on her lap.

Whose skin is pale and lips are pressed flat and…her eyes won't come to mine.

Fuck. That.

"You need to go," I tell Stacy.

Another sniff, this one sent in my direction.

Fuck this bitch.

Especially when she reaches for Rory's arm and snaps?—

"Not until I talk to my sister."