“This doesn’t feel like we’re pretending.”
I thumped my head against the back of the seat. I’d known this conversation would be coming and I still didn’t want to have it.
As far as I was concerned, we’d both stopped pretending almost as soon as we started. When I touched her, it was because I wanted to. Not because I wanted someone to see me doing it.
“Do we have to do this, Daisy, when you’ve got a meter running on your lunch break?”
She looked down at her lap. “No. Of course not.”
I gritted my teeth. “Yes, we do. If it’s something you want to talk about, then talk about it. Stop worrying about pissing me off because we both know it’s bound to happen.”
Her gaze lifted to mine. “I was just wondering…what we’re doing.”
“I don’t know what we’re doing. What I’m doing is enjoying spending time with you without worrying about what comes next or what happens in a month or a year. What are you doing?”
“Besides enjoying spending time with you?”
“Yeah.”
Those pretty hazel eyes returned to her lap. “I’m worrying about what comes next,” she confessed.
I nudged her chin up so she’d look at me. “Why does there have to be something that comes next? Why can’t we both just enjoy this the way it is without worrying ourselves to death over something that hasn’t happened yet?”
“That’s just usually the way I operate,” she said.
“How about we try this my way for the next while? My way gets you a non-picnic lunch and at least one orgasm before one p.m.”
Her cheeks went pink, and while her smile wasn’t as big as the one I’d gotten earlier for surprising her, it was good enough. “Let’s go,” she said.
I went instantly hard. All the thoughts I’d had of spreading her out on a blanket, naked and whimpering my name, rushed back. I wanted to taste her outside in the sun, the warm breeze. Wanted to feel her move under me while the rest of the world stood still.
I threw the truck in reverse and hit the gas.
We made it a block before Naomi’s phone rang from the depths of her purse. She dug it out and frowned at the screen. “It’s Nash.”
I snatched the phone from her and answered the call.
“Knox!” she complained.
“What?” I snapped into the phone.
“Need to talk to Naomi,” Nash said. He sounded grim.
“She’s busy. Talk to me.”
“I tried, asshole. I called you first, and you didn’t pick up. Got some news about Tina.”
There went my fucking picnic.
As I admired the view of Naomi’s shapely ass in front of me, I wondered how my brother was dealing with the long flight of stairs with his injuries. Nash’s place was on the second floor above Whiskey Clipper. And when I’d brought him home the previous weekend, he only made it to the top after I threatened to pick him up and carry him.
He opened the door just as I raised my fist to knock.
He looked pale, tired. And the asshole had his shirt off, revealing his wound dressing. He was holding fresh gauze and a roll of tape.
“You poor thing,” Naomi crooned, grabbing the supplies out of his hands. “Let me help you.”
Nash shot me a smirk when Florence Nightingale pushed her way inside. If he kept up the wounded hero routine with Naomi, I was going to raise his damn rent and push him down the stairs.