The Relationship Pact(42)

“Good. Before we go over there, her name is Trista Cunningham. Her husband is Jack Cunningham.”

I gasp. “They have the same last name?”

She smacks my arm. “Don’t be a dick.”

“Anything else less obvious that I need to know?”

Her gaze sweeps around the room before it comes back to me.

“Jack co-owns the Savannah Seahawks. They’re a minor league baseball team. These people are management, players, former players, businesses that sponsor different ballpark events, or bankers. You get the idea.”

I nod.

“But,” she says, lowering her voice, “none of that specifically matters to us. Our mission is solely on my mom.”

“Right,” I whisper conspiratorially.

Something about her enjoys this little game of us teaming up to … do whatever it is we’re doing. But I get it. I kind of like it too.

“Give me my marching orders again,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to make your mom think I’m totally obsessed with you, right?”

“Well, I mean, if you have to be obsessed, then do.” She pretends to be flattered, making me laugh. “But really, I just want her to think I’m seeing someone so she’ll stop setting me up with random guys who I have no interest or business dating. Because if you weren’t here, she would’ve set me up with someone, and she’d be naming our future children by now.”

“Rude.”

She shrugs. “It comes from a good place. I think.”

“I’m going to warn you,” I tell her. “If she’s after cute grandkids, you’re in trouble. One look at me, and she’s going to think about how she hopes her daughter breeds some of these genes into your gene pool.”

“Breeding your genes into my gene pool?” She lifts a brow. “When you say it like that, it’s such a turn-on.”

I laugh. “Would you like me to rephrase?”

“No.”

She swats me again, but this time, I grab her wrist. Her eyes go wide as they meet mine, and her breathing stalls in her chest.

We haven’t talked about the kiss from last night. And while we might not have talked about it, I know she’s thought about it. She’s replayed it ten times in her mind since I’ve picked her up. I’m not judging her because every time I catch her looking at my mouth, I’m thinking about it too.

Logic tells me that kiss was a mistake. Why bother kissing a girl who I know on a cellular level could get under my skin? I’ve made it a mission in my life—went completely out of my way—to avoid anyone I think might be able to get to me.

Honestly? It hasn’t been that hard.

I’m down to fuck. One-night stands are fine. Great, actually. I’m game for a friends-with-benefits situation too. But none of those circumstances involve kissing.

Sex is different. It’s an exchange. Kissing, though, is a connection. You can fuck someone and not have to face them. You do what you want to the other person’s body, but it has nothing to do with them as a person. Intercourse is a pleasure transaction. Kissing is a communication, an intentional decision to face someone and form a personal connection.

Fuck. That.

Yet I kissed her last night. Even worse, I want to kiss her again against my better judgment.

She squirms her hand free and lays it flat on the lapel of my jacket. Her breathing gets quicker.

“Would you rather I demonstrate?” I ask.

She tries to hide her smile. “Does that mean you’re thinking about kissing me again?”

“This isn’t about me,” I tell her, lowering my face toward hers. “This is about what suits you right now.”

She forces a swallow. Notes of amber in her perfume float through the air as her body undoubtedly heats.

I’m playing with fire here. And I just can’t stop myself.

“This is a public place, Hollis,” she says as if that would stop me.

“Does that mean whatever you’re thinking about is not PG-13?”

She flushes the prettiest shade of pink as she fingers the edge of my jacket. “I’m just thinking that I need to be the object of your affection while we’re here. Can you do that?”

I nod. “I can do that.”

She pats my chest, and I take a step back. She looks simultaneously relieved and disappointed at my movement. The thought that she liked me that close to her sends a surge of testosterone through me.

“Okay,” she says, clearing her throat. “Let’s go see Mom and Jack.”

“Let’s do it.”

She turns to walk away, and I instinctively want to grab her hand. I stop myself, but then I realize that if I was her man, I’d sure as hell be holding onto hers right now.

Play the part, Hollis.

I reach out and take her palm in mine. Our fingers lace together.

She looks at me over her shoulder and then down at our interlocked hands.

“What?” I ask. “You wanted to be the object of my affection.”

“Fair enough.”

She looks away but not before I see her satisfied little smile.

We wind through the faux forest, pausing every now and then when someone says hello to Larissa. She introduces me to each person as her boyfriend. Much to my surprise, the sound of that doesn’t make me cringe.