Branded (Fall of Angels #1)(52)

His uncle’s men could still be on our heels.

“Gee, I don’t know. What does it look like I’m doing?” he says with a coy face.

“No, no,” I say. “We can’t stop. What if we’re still being followed?” I try grabbing the wheel, but he slaps my hand away.

“Hands off. I’m the one driving,” he says. “We haven’t been followed for ages. It’s safe to take a fucking break.”

“Maybe they’re there,” I say, leaning back when he huffs. “How do you even know you’re safe? You don’t.”

“I don’t care.” He rolls his eyes. “We’re stopping, sugar, whether you like it or not.”

I purse my lips in annoyance. “Don’t call me that.”

I’m not fucking sweet, and he knows it.

With a smile that would make all the girls fawn, he looks my way, and says, “What’s that, pumpkin?”

I cringe. “Pumpkin?”

Anything but that. Anything. I’d settle for bitch at this point as long as he doesn’t call me pumpkin. What is this, the fifties? God, this makes me wanna ram my head into the dashboard.

“Pie?” He nods his head, and I don’t get where he’s going at all.

“What do you want from me?” I ask with a raised voice.

A dark, delish laugh rolls off his tongue, one that makes me want to punch him in the throat.

“Nothing right now, cupcake,” he muses, grabbing my cheeks to squeeze them.

I swat him away, but my skin still prickles where he touched me. Goddammit, I don’t wanna feel this way around him. Anyone but him.

Goddamn him and his annoying nicknames.

“Maybe later, when I feel like roughing you up again …” He winks, and it’s one of those that instantly makes your heart flutter. Fuck.

“But for now, I think you could use some of that.” With that devilish smile, he directs my attention toward a billboard hanging high above the diner that says “Darla’s Delicious Pumpkin Pie!” and my mouth begins to water.

So that’s what he meant.

I stare at it for a second before realizing he’s still watching me instead of the billboard, probably trying to gauge my reaction.

“Hungry?” he asks, lifting a brow.

I clear my throat, and say, “No, we don’t have time for that—”

He takes an instant left turn, and if it wasn’t for this seat belt, I would have flown out of my seat. With screeching tires, we come to a stop on the parking lot. My hair is a mess and so is my heart rate. On his face is an even bigger grin.

“I’ll decide what we have time for,” he says with a smug face as he takes the keys from the ignition. “Time for food.”

He grabs the pants and puts them on. My eyes barely close on time before he pulls off the towel and buttons up. Before I know it, he’s already tucked the gun back into his pocket. There goes my chance at stealing it. Again.

I sigh, as he fishes in his pockets and takes out his Zippo only to tuck it back in again. I guess he wanted to confirm it was still there. He’s lucky I brought his damn pants.

He opens the door in a hurry.

“What about your uncle?” I ask as he gets out of the car. I jump out too, slam the door behind me, and follow him. “Aren’t you worried he’s going to find us?”

“Nope,” he says, casually strolling across the parking lot.

It’s as if he doesn’t even realize he doesn’t have a shirt on.

And fuck me, I can’t even keep my eyes from trailing all over his body as I walk beside him, wondering how the fuck this man got so ripped. And what the fuck he thinks he’s doing walking in there half-naked.

But he doesn’t even seem to care as he opens the door and holds it, saying, “Ladies first.”

The fake smile that follows pushes all my buttons and makes me want to slam the door in his face.

But that wouldn’t be ladylike, and right now, I am lady as fuck just to avoid getting caught. Because if any of these diner people call the cops on us, we’re screwed.

I do give him a “this is a bad idea and you know it” side-eye, which makes him raise his brow in a way that says “I don’t care, and you know it.”

Goddammit. I hate when he does that.

With a pang in my stomach, I enter the diner anyway. Brandon hooks his arm through mine and tugs me along. I’m surprised by his sudden hands-on approach.

His mouth is close to my ear, and I can feel him breathe on my skin. “Just act natural,” he whispers.

“Natural?” I say as goose bumps scatter on my skin.

“Like a couple.”

Wait, what? A couple? I have to pretend to be his girlfriend?

“Otherwise, they’ll get suspicious,” he adds, a breathy smile following, making my pussy clench.

Fuck. Why does my body react to him the way it does? I hate it. I hate it so damn much that I have to physically stop myself from jerking free from his grasp just to pretend not to care.

Instead, I let him guide us to a booth while everyone’s staring at us. Or rather … him and his tan, lickable abs.

Did I just think that? Yes … but I’m not the only one, judging by the way the waitress with the rock-n-roll 80s hairdo who’s licking her lips like the last time she got nookie was when she got her hair fixed. I’m practically shooting venom from my eyes like a viper when we pass her.