Lucas took a step back. “Wait, what?” He shook his head and walked around in a minicircle before jabbing his finger at my chest. “You were just threatening to kill me with a smile on your face if I ever offered. I told you I was kidding and apologized, and now you’re pissed because you don’t think I want you?”
“YES!” I threw my hands in the air. “Look, I would NEVER become your Saturday, but that doesn’t mean I want you to think I’m not good enough to be ON the list! Stop insulting me!”
“YOU’RE IMPOSSIBLE!”
“I’M A WOMAN!” I raised my voice even more.
We were once again chest to chest.
And once again.
We kissed.
I think I led the next kiss, not that it mattered since we were both guilty—and oh my Honey Nut Cheerios, his tongue.
I was going to build a shrine in honor of his mouth.
Or a . . . What did I just say about his tongue?
No, his hands, his large hands as they moved down my body, sliding against my hips as his erection—
NOOOOOOO!
“STOP!” I slapped him again and tumbled back.
This time I hit his left cheek so . . . at least the redness matched the patch on his right cheek.
He hissed out a curse and glared at me. “Are you serious right now?”
“Sorry.” I covered my face with my hands and laughed. “I got carried away.”
His face was flushed red.
His lips were swollen.
And damn it, Lucas Thorn still looked like an Armani underwear model.
How was that possible?
“Kids?” Patty’s voice echoed in the room.
“Quick!” I jabbed him in the chest. “How’s my hair? Is there lipstick on my face?”
He grinned. It was a bad grin, a wicked grin, a grin that promised punishment.
Without any warning, he ran his hands through my hair, fully messing it up, then tore at part of my dress.
When his mom walked into the wine cellar, I knew what she probably saw.
A girl who’d just seduced her perfect son, and tried tearing off her dress to do so.
“Oh!” Patty covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh dear.” She did a full circle and then glanced at us again. “I, uh, I didn’t mean to intrude—we just need to put our orders in.”
“Great.” I forced a smile.
Lucas wrapped an arm around me and chuckled. “Oh, Mom, sorry. We just got so carried away with all that baby talk that, well, I think it got Avery excited to start trying, and before I knew what was happening, my pants were already—”
“Okay, pumpkin!” I slammed my hand over his face. “Let’s leave the details to the wine in this room . . . and us . . . and the table. No need to share!”
Patty’s grin literally could not get any wider. “Oh, grandchildren!”
“I should, um”—I gestured toward the ladies’ room behind me—“fix my hair.”
Patty nodded.
When I didn’t move, Lucas grabbed me by the shoulders and pointed me in the right direction.
Once I finished freshening up, I headed back to the dining room, only to find Lucas waiting for me with a smug grin on his face. “I thought you were fixing your hair?”
I let out a little groan and marched toward the table, with Lucas Thorn slapping my ass, like I was a cow in line for the fair, the entire freaking way.
I was going to kill him before the night was over.
And I would do it with a smile on my face.
Chapter Eighteen
LUCAS
Dinner was an absolute disaster, like something you’d see on TV and assume never happens in real life—but it does.
Then again, I grew up with that. The insane mother who talks too loud in the grocery store and mistakes K-Y for cooking oil. The father who buys beer but never drinks it, and just stocks his fridge so that company can be impressed with his ability to pick a good IPA.
When I was in high school, my parents were known as the Thorns, and it wasn’t said in an excited, cheerful way. It was whispered behind my back as my oblivious parents marched to the beat of their own drum and hosted Harry Potter costume parties in their front yard and naked bingo on Friday nights, with an Indian dream catcher as the grand prize.
I wasn’t sure if they were weird on purpose.
Or just found it entertaining to shock people.
“So . . .” My dad stabbed his last piece of broccoli and shoveled it into his gaping mouth. “When’s the wedding?”
Avery pinched my thigh and then gave the flesh a little twist.
My mom, sadly, had seen the entire ending to our last kiss, and wrongly assumed we were so in love we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
Well, she at least had one part right. Since sitting down, we hadn’t been able to keep our hands off each other—I had bruising to prove it.
I spent most of the dinner making sure that all steak knives were pushed away from Avery. Knowing her, she’d stab me in front of my parents, then make up some shit about how blood turned me on.
I wouldn’t put it past her, bloodthirsty wench.
She finally stopped twisting the flesh on my thigh long enough for me to catch my breath and think of a logical excuse to get out of the predicament we’d found ourselves in. So far the dinner had done nothing but encourage my parents. And it’s not like I had another choice; telling them the truth would devastate them all over again.
And as for admitting that my faux engagement to Avery wasn’t going to help our families reestablish their broken and then lost relationship—I couldn’t even imagine that possibility. Not after seeing their reaction to us as a couple.
I imagined the aftermath: Mom would cry and ask where she went wrong. She’d stop at every table in the restaurant, point and beg to be told why she was getting punished again and why her son felt the need to show his penis to a different woman every day. She’d shout “Penis!” because she never said sexually charged words quietly. And then she’d end up telling the whole god-awful story about when I’d started to go downhill—the night I made a bad choice and ruined their lives forever.
Dad would make the sign of the cross over his chest and stare down at his plate until it either came alive or Mom escorted him from the restaurant.
Nope. The truth would be a disaster.
“Um,” I finally found my voice. “You know, right now we’re really just enjoying this . . . time.” I nodded. “It’s nice just”—I waved my hands in the air—“being together.”
Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Lucas, I hate to tell you this, but you are thirty-two.” She leaned forward, though she didn’t lower her voice. If anything, she took a deep breath, ready to put every ounce of energy she had into whatever advice she was about to give. “SPERM START DYING AT YOUR AGE!”
“Thanks, Mom,” I mumbled. Avery shook with laughter.
“WELL!” Mom threw her hands in the air as if I was a hopeless case. “DO YOU WANT your SPERM to die?”
Trick question? If I said yes, would she slap me? If I said no, would she encourage more sex?
Life choices.
Sometimes they sucked.
“I see what you mean,” Avery said. “The last thing this world needs is a man as virile as Lucas Thorn being rendered unable to reproduce.”
Okay, laying it on a bit thick, Avery. I refused to look at her, because when I looked at her, I remembered the way her mouth tasted—and that would encourage me to throw the girl over the table and screw her senseless in front of my parents. Hell, my mom would probably cheer us on and make sure that we forgot a condom. She’d make signs that read “Grandchildren Under Construction” and paint her face like she was at one of my old football games.
They’d been great fans at all my sporting events.
Mom reached across the table and met Avery’s hand halfway. They squeezed like they were sharing a private moment, but when Avery tried to pull away, Mom held on tighter.
Ha
h.
Trapped.
I leaned back and crossed my arms. Should I save her?
Nope.
Out of the corner of her eye, Avery glared at me.
I didn’t move.
“Avery, dear”—Mom cleared her throat—“I hate to bring this up, but should you be drinking if you’re trying to get pregnant?”
“Yeah, Avery?” I jerked away her wine and downed it all, then set her empty glass back in front of her while her nostrils flared.
Alcohol was the only bonus of the dinner.
Other than that last kiss.
But I refused to think about the kiss.
Or where our hands were during the kiss.
Damn it.
Avery opened her mouth.
Mom shushed her. “Now, you just listen, Avery, this is wisdom from the women in the Thorn family, that now I’m passing down to you.”
“Should she take notes?” I piped in.
“Oh!” Mom grinned. “I’ll email them to her too, just in case you forget. Now, listen carefully.” I smirked as Mom geared up. “Thirty minutes, your legs straight up in the air—that way the sperm stays inside your uterus!”
Dad started texting frantically.