Chapter Four #3
“Everybody lies, Bailey,” he countered, still calm. “Half-truths, prevarications, things you just don’t say that you know you should. If you want this experience to live up to your expectations, full transparency is key.”
Annoyed, she set the bones of her chicken thigh on her paper towel and dipped into the bucket for a leg. “You’re making this too complicated.”
“I’m trying to make it good,” he countered.
“Maybe I should’ve just picked up a bunch of guys in a bar,” she muttered and bit savagely into the leg.
“Too late,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, Bay. You know I’m right.”
The nickname threw her off. He hadn’t called her that since they’d broken up, and it felt overly familiar. She shook it off. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Full transparency.” She pointed the chicken leg at him. “But that goes both ways.”
“Absolutely.”
His smooth, unruffled demeanor was annoying her. “Any other questions?”
“Just one,” he said, his voice a calm counterpoint to the bite in hers. “Do you want veto power? Over the other participants,” he elaborated when she looked at him blankly.
“Oh.” She munched on chicken while she thought. She knew she should say yes—it would be irrational and reckless not to have a say over something like that—but part of her fantasy was about not having that power. “No.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, his eyes sharp.
She knew she was putting a heavy weight on him, but he’d bear it. “I trust you.”
Something like gratitude flashed in his eyes, for just a moment. Then he nodded. “Safeword?”
Trust was one thing, but foregoing a safeword would be beyond reckless. “I’ll go with my usual. You remember?”
His eyes glinted with mirth, the dimple popping in his cheek. “How could I forget? You’re the only person I know whose safeword is the name of a British girl-group from the eighties.”
She let out a delighted laugh. “It’s Robin’s fault. She played that shit so often.”
“You’re also the only person I know whose safeword comes from their mother,” he added drily.
“‘Bananarama’ is a perfect safeword,” she argued. “And that time I had to use it when we were staying at my folks’ house for Thanksgiving, my mom just thought we were arguing about music.”
“You made me shout ‘John Melencamp’ to make it believable,” he remembered with a grin.
“And she played Venus over breakfast to prove it was better than Paper in Fire,” Bailey hooted, laughing so hard she had to stop eating.
“Your dad knew something was up,” he said, his dimple deepening when his grin widened. “He gave me the stink eye all morning.”
“He knew I hated that damn band,” Bailey said with a final chuckle. “And he could probably hear us fucking. We were right next to the den, and he always watched the late shows.”
Nash grimaced. “You’re kidding.”
“He didn’t care.”
Nash just stared at her, and she grinned. “Okay, he cared. But he respected my autonomy, and he liked you.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Nash muttered and lifted his beer.
“Well, as much as he could like a guy making his daughter shout ‘Bananarama’,” she amended, and snickered when he choked on the beer.
“Please tell me he didn’t know that was your safeword,” he wheezed.
“God, no.” She polished off her chicken leg while he sagged with relief. “I mean, I’m close to my parents, but I’m not that close.”
“Thank God.” He eyed her curiously. “How are they?”
“My parents?” She wrapped the leg bone in the same paper towel she’d used for the thigh, then tore another off the roll to wipe her hands. “They’re good.”
“Your mom still at City Hall?”
Bailey nodded. “And Dad’s still driving the truck.”
Nash’s lips twitched. “That doesn’t surprise me. Is he still collecting coffee cups from truck stops?”
“Yes, but Mom made a rule a few years ago forbidding duplicates, because she was tired of taking the extras to the second-hand store. So now he tries to take new routes, just so he can bring home a new one.”
“That sounds like Ben.”
“They thought you moving in here was nuts,” she blurted out.
Humor warmed his eyes. “I bet. Did they try to talk you out of it?”
“Not really.”
“Probably because they know arguing with you is an exercise in futility.”
“Probably,” she acknowledged. There was something in his eyes alongside the humor, and it was making the nerves in her belly dance. “Dad did say to tell you hello.”
“And your mom?” he prompted.
“Said to make sure your lease had an out clause.”
“Sounds about right.” He jerked his chin at the bucket. “Want any more?”
She always wanted more fried chicken, but she was no longer hungry. “No, I’m done.”
“Good. I want to see something.”
“What?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, just moved the bucket of chicken to the side, then did the same with her beer bottle before stretching forward until he was on his hands and knees. Balancing on one hand, he picked up the bones she’d wrapped in a paper towel and set it next to the bucket.
“What are you doing?” she asked curiously, nerves humming. He was so close, all but in her lap, and he should have looked ridiculous, down on all fours. Instead, he looked like a tawny lion stalking its prey, and no matter how silly she told herself that was, it still made her shiver.
His answering smile was sly, his voice a low rumble. “This,” he said and, leaning forward, took her mouth.