Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
The knock at the door rattles through the house as I finish applying the deep red stain on my lips at the bathroom mirror. Tonight’s color is called Regret.
It’s directed at Gavin.
“I’ll be right there,” I shout.
Since I have no doubt Gavin will look like a stray dog in a white T-shirt and Fontain doesn’t have anything that would be considered upscale, I chose something casual.
Ish.
Skinny black jeans, partially sheer red lace shirt, and a black lace bra.
And the highest Louboutins I own.
Fine, I’m not casual. I look sexy as hell because I like watching Gavin squirm.
More importantly, me looking like this and him looking like him will be a good reminder of every difference between us and why this date will be the only date we ever go on. I’d be remiss not to keep him grounded in reality.
Or, maybe, I want to see the look of pain on his face when he tries to kiss me again and I shoot him down.
I rake a hand through my hair, the longest of the dark strands grazing my shoulders as they fall back into place. My eyes are framed by thick, inky lashes and shades of gold on my eyelids. I haven’t looked this hot since I’ve been in Fontain. Gavin might actually cry.
Mom meets me in the foyer with a dish towel in her hands and smiles, smug and like she never had brain surgery.
“Shut up,” I snap as I pull the door open.
Gavin is standing on the porch, familiar broad shoulders, bright eyes, and—hell the fuck no. A sound—something between a grunt and a death rattle—slips out of me. My stomach drops to the floor, and I slam the door in his face.
“Reese Conway!” Mom gasps, elbowing me aside. “What is wrong with you?”
“Did you see him?” I demand. “I’m not going anywhere with that man.”
She makes her angry mom face. “You most certainly will.” She reopens the door and sighs before giving Gavin a sweet smile. “Reese left her manners in Chicago, Gav. C’mon in. And don’t you look nice.”
As Gavin steps in the house and takes up every square inch, nice is the understatement of the century. He’s ditched the T-shirt, the hat . . . and about five inches of hair off his head, including his beard.
If it was just his new beautiful face I was dealing with, maybe I wouldn’t be lightheaded.
But it’s the fact he exchanged his everyday clothes for a suit—a fitted, slim-cut, designer suit—and is holding the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen a man hold.
Mostly because I’ve never seen a man hold flowers.
Every bouquet I’ve received in my adult life was in a vase on my desk, signed from the firm after I closed a big deal.
“Iris,” he says with a slight drawl before turning a smolder on me. “Miss Reese.” His eyes take their sweet-ass time working their way down the length of me. “You look nice.”
It’s criminal that beneath all that atrocious facial hair was a face made to be sat on.
“Wish I could say the same.” This sexy bastard won’t beat me at my own game. I snatch my purse off a hook. “The suit is a bit much.” My eyes drop to the flowers. “You salvage those from a weed patch at work today?”
My mom makes an annoyed sound, but Gavin’s eyes dance. “I couldn’t rose-ist.”
Mom finds this hilarious, and I attempt to murder her with my glare.
“This isn’t a real date,” I remind them both. “This is me fulfilling an obligation.”
“Good thing,” Gavin says, smiling enough his dimples clearly carve into his cheeks. “Because these are for Iris.”
Sure enough, my mom’s name is written on the card in the middle of the tree-sized bouquet.
Mom coos, nearly sticking her entire head into them as she sniffs. “They’re just lovely.”
Why does that infuriate me?
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, Mother.” I give her a look that I hope she feels like a punch. I march past Gavin, climb into the passenger side of his truck, and cross my arms over my chest like a petulant child.
He is not supposed to look like that.
He is not supposed to bring flowers to my mother.
He is not supposed to be under my skin, and yet here he is, festering like an infection.
I hope he trips on a rock on his way to the truck and gets a concussion.
He and my mom gab on the porch a minute longer before he saunters my way—not tripping—and slips into the driver’s seat. His lips twitch like this is all a big joke.
My nostrils flare. Both at how hot he looks and how much he knows it. And who has eyes that bright? It’s rude.
The whole damn thing.
He starts the truck at the same time he says, “Knock, knock.”
My teeth grind. “No.”
“Knock, knock.”
Begrudgingly: “Who’s there?”
“Lettuce.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and count backward from three. I don’t want to do this. Go on this date or play this game or keep looking at him and bathing in his scent. “Lettuce who?”
He shifts the gear to drive. “Lettuce go out on a date, Miss Reese.”
And as hard as I fight it, I laugh.
I don’t know why Gavin is wearing a suit or why he owns that suit. For a man who wears T-shirts that I assume come in a package of five and the same three pairs of blue jeans on rotation, the fabric on his body is expensive.
Instead of asking him like an adult, I spend the whole drive quiet, conjuring up scenarios of where we’re going only to come up empty.
In no scenario did I expect him to park at a rustic wood building in the middle of nowhere.
I crane my neck to read the sign through the windshield and see a pig’s head next to a two-named, one-worded barbecue joint called RayNathan’s.
“You got a haircut and wore a suit for barbecue?” I get out of the truck and slam the door.
The rich scent of sugar-laced smoke fills my nose, and my mouth waters with a single breath. It reminds me of campfires in the backyard on summer nights.
“Not just barbecue.” Gavin steps next to me and offers his arm. “And I’m wearing the suit because you like it.”
I scoff, looping my arm around his and letting him guide me toward the restaurant.
He smells spicy—like soap and cologne—and his hair—even though it’s been cut—is still long enough to fall into his face.
I want to twist a lock of it around my finger.
“I never said that.” Except wordlessly with the way I eye fucked the hell out of him when he walked in my mother’s house. “So now you just look like a fool.”
A laugh rumbles in his chest. “Either way—” He pauses at the door, and I’m forced to reorient myself with his face. It’s a damn good face that I wish he’d go back to hiding. And his lips, now fully on display without a whisker to hide them . . . dammit. “You like the suit—”
“No, I don’t. I—”
He puts a hand to my mouth and leans his face close to mine, lowering his voice to say, “You do. And I’m glad you do. Because I like you, Reese. A lot.”
I fall silent. Because it almost sounds like Baby, we like you.
“So if it means wearing a suit and cutting my hair to prove that, I’ll do it. Okay?”
We aren’t going somewhere fancy: He’s wearing a suit at a barbecue restaurant because he knew I’d like it. It is disgustingly thoughtful.
I nod.
“Good.” He drops his hand from my mouth. “All I want is for you to not fight me—just for tonight—and see what happens.”
That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard of, but my vagina, that hussy, responds like it was an invitation with a wax seal delivered straight to her. “Fine.”
“Fine.” He smirks as he opens the door. “Now let’s go meet the ladies.”