Knot Her Shot (MVP: Most Valuable Pack Book 2)

Chapter 51

chapter

fifty-one

I can still tasteSmith an hour later.

Our kiss didn’t last more than one brief second. A soft brush of his lips. One sure, leisurely glide of his tongue along mine.

While I was still in shock, he led me down to his Range Rover and told me to get comfortable. I found out why when he pulled onto the interstate, heading east.

On our way, he asks me questions.

Not inquiries—things about the house, my plans, the pack. But actual, personal questions that only seem aimed at getting to know me better.

Ignoring the way my lips still tingle, I tell him about meeting Cassian, becoming friends with Meg, and what my job used to look like—before his investment group purchased Proper Coffee.

He asks thoughtful follow-up questions and some that just feel silly—cats or dogs? (Cats are obviously smarter and cleaner). Chocolate or vanilla? (The correct answer is why choose?) Favorite color? (Seasonal.) Food? (He says croissants don’t count and demands I name “an actual meal,” to which I begrudgingly admit I’m a sucker for really good pasta.) Place?

That last one stumps me a bit. I haven’t really had the opportunity to travel much. The only excursions I ever went on were state-funded field trips to various Florida locales.

While I explain, blushing from embarrassment at sounding so uncultured, Smith’s warm palm finds my thigh, squeezing gently. “You would love Paris,” he muses. “All the pastries and flower markets. Versailles. The art. Great shopping, too.” He smiles wryly. “Although Cassian would moan in every store, and Damon would bitch at every museum.”

I look down at his hand, the long fingers slowly stroking my skin. That one touch—this whole evening—feels like a gesture.

I’m not sure when or why it started, but I’ve noticed things like this more and more. Sweetly nuzzling my face before he leaves in the morning, the way he’s tempered his intensity to make his stares less intimidating and more steadying.

He’s really trying.

And I want to try, too.

Swallowing nerves, I try for an even tone. “Maybe… that could be a good trip for just the two of us?”

Smith turns his head, casting me a stunned look that quickly melts into the first true grin I’ve ever witnessed on his handsome face. It’s a beautiful smile—warm and masculine—made even more genuine by the way his eyes crinkle.

“That’s an excellent idea,” he praises. “I’d love to take you shopping there.”

I try for a completely innocent look. “Buy yourself some new pocket squares?”

Smith’s laughter might be the best sound I’ve ever heard. Every bit as alluring as his smile, but layered with joy; and a note of surprise that makes me want to laugh, too.

His phone is plugged into the Range Rover’s center console, pumping out some horribly whiny alternative rock. When he sees me glance at the display, wincing, he chuckles again. “Here, little petal. Pick whatever you like.”

TheSmith Pierson is handing me his phone?! It doesn’t seem real. He’s practically married to this thing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without it on his person.

Except maybe that one night... in his room…

I take the iPhone, swiping it open and scrolling his Spotify. Unlike Cassian and Damon, who always shared their account and recently added me, too—Smith has his own. Of course.

The playlists feel like a whole lot of nothing. Smooth jazz, vague alternative, and something called Mellow Oldies. The sort of music someone puts on because they’re trying not to listen too hard. Pulling a face, I abandon all of his saved songs and go hunting for new material.

While I’m scrolling a text alert pops up at the top of the screen. Irene, the contact name says. Along with one sentence, Missing you tonight!

I blink at the phone as the alert tucks itself into the top of the screen. As if nothing ever happened.