Stay with Me (Wait for You, #3)(54)

Nick nodded. “Okay.”

“Like never.”

There was a tiny movement in his lips, like he was so close to smiling. “Gotcha.”

I stared at him a moment, actually stopped in the middle of the floor behind the bar, and stared at Nick. “Tequila is a dirty whore,” I told him.

A low, husky chuckle slipped out of him. “I’ve heard that before.”

My lips split into a smile.

Jax’s hand wrapped around mine. “You’re coming with me.”

My gaze went from Jax’s face to where his hand closed around mine. “Going where?”

He didn’t answer, but gently tugged me along, walking me past the apron and toward the exit of the bar. More curious than annoyed, I let him lead me down the hall to the office. He pulled me inside, shutting the door, and I remembered the last time he’d done this. He’d kissed me, but it hadn’t been a real kiss.

Jax didn’t let go of my hand as he leaned against the edge of the desk, and he didn’t say anything.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the next and tried to pull my hand back, but he didn’t let go. “What?”

“I want to take you out on a date Sunday.”

“What?” I hadn’t expected that. Nope.

A grin flashed across his face. “A date. You and me. Sunday night. Not at the Waffle House.”

My ears were deceiving me. There was no way he was saying what I thought he was.

“There’s this new steak house in town. Only been open a year or two, but everyone loves it,” he continued as he watched me. “I can pick you up at six.”

“You . . . you are seriously asking me out on a date?”

“I seriously am.”

Two things were happening inside me. One was the rush of warmth that was whipping everywhere, lighting me up from the inside. The other was icy disbelief. I didn’t understand why he was asking me out, unless it was some kind of weird, pity date.

My stomach tumbled.

Oh my God, it was a weird, pity date.

“No,” I said, pulling my arm. He didn’t let go, but I also wasn’t going to be a part of this. “I’m not going on a date with you.”

His hand slipped off mine and slid to my wrist. “I think you are.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You’ll like their steaks,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “They have a great filet.”

“I don’t like steaks,” I lied. I loved red meat, all kinds of red meat. I was a meat girl, meat and more meat.

He arched a brow as his thumb smoothed over the inside of my wrist. “Please tell me you like steaks. I don’t know if we can be friends if you say you don’t.”

I almost laughed, because that was ridiculous. “I like steaks, but—”

“Perfect,” he murmured, tipping his head back. “Did you bring any dresses with you? I’d like to see you in a dress.”

I did bring summer dresses and the appropriate shrugs with me to hide the scars, but that was beside the point. “Why do you even want to go out with me?”

“Because I like you.”

My heart jumped in my chest, and if it had hands, it would have been clapping happily. “You can’t like me.”

“I’ve already told you that I want to f*ck you. You can’t forget that.”

Holy crap. “I kind of blocked that out.”

He laughed deeply, clearly amused. “You can’t be surprised that I like you.”

“Fucking and liking are two different things.”

“Yes. And no.” His eyes locked with mine. “Are you saying no because you don’t think you’re pretty?”

Holy crap on a Conquistador.

“I know.”

I tried to pull back this time, digging in my feet, but his arm curled, keeping me in place. Panic dug acid-tipped claws into my skin. My chest rose with a deep breath and I forced my eyes to narrow, giving him the most bitchtastic look I could come up with, anything to take attention off how he’d hit my rejection right on the head.

“I know,” he said again, tugging me forward as he spread his legs. I ended up between the V of his thighs. Close, too close to him.

I didn’t understand that statement, so I continued staring at him with my bitchy glare. “Let me go.”

One arm slid around my back and he kept moving his thumb up the inside of my arm. The touch, his closeness, all of it was doing strange things to my body. My knees were going weak while every muscle was tensing. “I already knew about the pageants,” he said, keeping his gaze on mine. “Before you showed me the picture and the trophy last night, I already knew.”

There were no words.

“Your mom used to talk about it a lot, tell us how pretty her baby is. Not used to be, but is.”

I was going to kill my mom.

“Clyde would talk about it, too,” he went on, having no idea that I just added Uncle Clyde to my murderous list, and then I’d have to off myself for last night, because I’d done the same thing. “He wasn’t a fan of the pageants or the way your mom paraded you around. Neither was your dad, right?”

Clyde had hated the pageants, but my dad . . . “I don’t know,” I heard myself saying. “Dad never said anything to Mom.”