“What’s wrong,” he demanded. The way he was scrutinizing her every move and expression went a long way to calming her ruffled feathers. His concern was real. A tiny jolt struck her nerves. Hidden inside their performance was a truth no one could ever imagine. The realization was just the reminder she needed.
Screw those bitchy dick-riders. A week ago, she’d have given her eyeteeth to be where she was right now. On a date. With Edward. Fuck the haters. She was Paige Marie Turner, goddammit, and she had a fuck-you-very-much degree from Cornell University. She owed no one, except maybe the guy next to her, an explanation about anything, and as far as she was concerned, all the Hollywood haters could feel free to blow her anytime.
Straightforward or fuck off, right?
Paige softened. She settled into the sofa, crossed her legs, and leaned closer to her companion. He wore the fierce scowl and his eyes were darting around, searching for someone or something to annihilate. He wasn’t stupid. The second she sat down, he’d known she was pissed.
Wetting her lips, she scooted even closer and offered up a reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”
The mockingly arched brow, she was used to. Edward did adorable skepticism with quite the actor’s flair. But when you put the comical expression on a face sporting some serious scruff under a mop of hair that was more than a bit out of hand with lips that tasted like sin set in a knowing grin, you got yourself a four-alarm thong-on-fire blaze.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
She offered a flash of a smirk and smacked him on the arm. “Put the death rays away. I’m not a distressed damsel and can take care of myself.”
“What does that mean? Did someone say something to you?” He whirled around and scanned the room.
“Hey,” she murmured. “I’m fine.” Sending her fingers on a scouting mission, she ran them down his tie and grinned. “Better than fine, actually.”
The moment she touched him, the contact circumvented whatever else had been flying around in his head. He turned back and angled toward her, his head lowered as he watched what her fingers were doing.
“Mmm, I like this tie.” Paige had a long-standing love-hate relationship with men’s neckwear. Watching a breaking news story on TV, her first reaction was often to the anchor’s tie. It wasn’t uncommon for her to dislike a person on sight if their tie rubbed her the wrong way.
“You gave it to me.”
Indeed, she had. An impulse buy that she insisted made his eyes even bluer—if that was possible. It made her freakishly giddy that he remembered.
Using the excuse of admiring the tie, she pressed her fingers against his muscled chest, making a tactile map in her mind.
“Why did you wear a suit tonight?” she asked because she was genuinely intrigued by what his answer would be. Had he been dressed, as she had been? Was someone else calling their wardrobe shots?
“My suit?” He looked confused. “You like it, right?”
Oh, right. She almost forgot. Gideon was a dress-up doll, but Edward was a clueless, insecure mess where clothes were concerned.
Feeling flirty, she dipped a shoulder his way and murmured in a throaty growl, “Grrrr, Mr. Shaw. I like the suit and tie thing very much.”
He grinned, and she relaxed. “Oh, well good then because some asshole named Banning picked it out. And I wore a suit because my mama done taught me right.”
Paige chuckled. “What the hell does that mean?”
Edward put a hand on her hip, his thumb pressing a spot that turned her to jelly. With her crossed legs angled his way and the way she was leaning close to caress his tie—and now as he crowded close and claimed her with his warm touch—there was no doubt they were much more than friends.
“It means, babe, that my mom beat it into Marshall and me that a gentleman always wears a suit when taking a real lady to dinner. I think this occasion qualifies,” he added with a chuckle.
Oh, my dear sweet baby Jesus … how did you make a guy so perfect and then let me fall for him? He just called her a real lady and said he was a gentleman. Good grief—she felt a lovesick giggle building and struggled to contain it.
“And while we’re on wardrobe choices …” He smirked. “Anytime a woman wears a little black dress and sexes it up with some nasty-girl shoes, well …”
“Well, what?” she asked when he let the sentence hang unfinished.
“Well … what would turn on such a woman? A flannel shirt and jeans or a fancy Italian suit? I went with the suit and hoped it wasn’t a major mistake.”
After she spent the time to memorize his tie, Paige moved on to Edward’s impressive scruff. She touched his jawline and studied the scratchy beard-in-progress. He’d always made light of his hot guy status, and she wondered if the real man had any idea how gorgeous she found him.
“The suit is perfect for the occasion,” she assured him, “but the flannel shirt and jeans will work for our RV adventure.”
With his fingers doing strange things to her hip, rump, and upper leg, they stared at each other, and for her, everyone else melted away. At that moment, it was just Edward and she, the surf crashing in the distance, the stars twinkling overhead, and that was it.
Delight was shining in his eyes. “Don’t forget to pack a few sundresses along with the jeans, babe. I like when I can see your legs.”
Yep. That did it for her. She was definitely jumping his bones the second this charade was over, and they were alone.
Dessert and two coffees later, they were wrapped around each other and headed for the door as they shared a private laugh over some random thing. It struck Paige that nothing had ever felt so right. Being Gideon didn’t take away from the Edward-Paige dynamic. If anything, it gave them a spot of comic relief that only they shared. Something that was theirs alone and really … how cool was that?
Edward made zero attempt to behave on their way out of the restaurant. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less if the entire global media was circling when they stepped outside. All he knew was how fucking fantastic Paige’s ass felt with his big ol’ paw gripping her fleshy butt. Everything else? What-fucking-ever.
With her pressed to his side and laughing as if all this was the funniest shit ever, he ushered her from the restaurant with a playful butt squeeze followed by a half-assed shove. “Time to strut your stuff, Miss Turner.”
“Hey,” she yelped. “Why’d you take your hand off my ass?”
He laughed and shook his head. “I thought you said the handsy thing was a no?”
Pressing against him, her hands on his chest, she wiggled her wicked body and giggled. “It’s a real lady’s prerogative to change her mind whenever she wants.”
“Oh, good,” he drawled. “So it won’t be a problem then when I peel this dress back,” he told her while pulling at the fabric, “to bare your tits so I can suck your pretty nipples?”
She gasped and went still. Oops. “What?” he asked. “I went too far, didn’t I? Shit, babe. I’m sorry.”
Instead of ripping his head off, which was kind of what he’d expected, she responded with an earthy growl. “Can I put my hands in your hair while you do?”
Shit. There was no way he was going to keep from making love to her if she kept it up. They were in dangerous territory, but he dug seeing her this way. Made him hard as a rock.
“Please do.” Yeah. Thinking about her grabbing his head while he went to town on her delicious body was crazy hot. “Pretty soon, you’re gonna have to teach me how to do a man-bun.”
“I know! Right?” she hooted with glee. Fiddling with the lapels of his suit jacket, she whined adorably. “Don’t know how I feel about being with a guy whose hair is longer than mine.” Tugging hard, she threatened, “Oh, and keep your hands off my hair products. Unless, of course, you like smelling like a chick.”