The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2)(57)

He gave me a squeeze. “Shut it.”

“Or take care of him until I get home Thursday and Friday. I can ask Iz or Margot.”

I found myself dragged up the bed so we were face to face.

“Makin’ this clear only once even though I thought I already did that,” he began.

Oh man.

I had Toby’s ticked-off growl.

“I get you come as a package,” he declared. “I picked that package. My choice. Nothing against how beautiful you are or funny or feisty or all the other shit I dig about you, but honest to God, don’t know if I’d be in this deep if Brooklyn wasn’t a part of you. So get over this and do it now because I want you and I want him and that’s it.”

And that’s it.

That was it.

“Okay,” I said shakily.

“You over it?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“You have another second to be sure about that.”

That second came as silence.

Then he asked, “You over it now?”

I really wanted to bust out laughing.

I didn’t.

I whispered, “I’m over it, Toby.”

“Jesus,” he muttered irritably, pushed me back down and then tucked me close again.

Being ticked and tucking me close was funny too.

I didn’t laugh.

I just pressed closer and remarked, “You Gamble Men really don’t fuck around, do you?”

“No, babe, we don’t,” he stated firmly.

I didn’t bother with beating back my smile.

I gave him some time to cool down before I said, “Goodnight, honey.”

“’Night, baby,” he replied.

Day one.

Done.

And seriously.

We had our shit tight.





It Was Family

Addie

ON SATURDAY, TOBY drove my Focus into town with me in the passenger seat and Brooks in his seat in the back.

It had been a week of Toby and me having our shit tight.

I noticed he was a mellow dude and there was very little he put his foot down about, and this was good since I was not a putting-a-foot-down-man type of woman.

Since we weren’t talking about him buying groceries (and incidentally, he came through my line with Brooks on Thursday night and filled some of those kickass burlap bags again (four of them) to take food to my house, and I was pretty proud of myself I didn’t say a word—then again, he’d spent every night at my house since we got together so he was eating the food along with me) . . .

Or paying my copay (something he handed me a twenty on Tuesday morning in order that I could do) . . .

Or taking Brooks on, along with taking me . . .

It was all good.

That was, it was all good until we were set to go into town for the Fair and we couldn’t put the car seat in his truck because his truck had a bench seat, therefore we had to take my, car and I told him no one drove my car but me.

This was when I found out that, unless you had a dick, Tobias Gamble did not ride shotgun.

And even if you had a dick, there was a discussion.

But no dick, no way.

He’d said this, straight out.

“You won’t let a woman drive?” I’d asked.

“Babe.”

That was his answer.

Babe.

Obviously, that was no answer at all, so I called him on it.

“Why?” I queried.

“It’s just the way it is,” he replied.

“Yes, but . . . why?” I pushed.

“Adeline, there’s some things you don’t question about a man.”

“That’s insane.”

I used that word rather than the word “chauvinistic,” the phrase “macho-man lunacy” or the like.

“It isn’t, since getting the answer might piss you off . . .” he took a pause to assess me and finished, “more.”

“It is because you know in explaining it it’ll still just be insane.”

Or chauvinistic, etcetera.

“Why do you put on mascara?” he asked.

“It makes me pretty,” I answered.

“No more pretty than you are without it.”

Well, shit.

“Okay then, I think it makes me prettier,” I retorted.

“You’re wrong.”

“I can’t be wrong about an opinion,” I snapped.

“Exactly. I drive because I’m more comfortable bein’ in control of the car, especially if I got bodies in it I care about, and the two bodies that are gonna be in it, I seriously care about, and it’s my opinion I’m more than likely better at it than you. That might be wrong, but it bein’ wrong would be subjective. So unless you got some serious hang up about ridin’, I drive.”

This was infuriating.

Because how could you argue with that?

Thus, me riding into town shotgun in my own damned car.

And he did drive kind of fast.

But he was a good driver.

Even though it was already busy in town, Tobe scored an awesome parking spot.

He parked, and we got out.

I went to Brooks.

He went to the hatchback to get Brooklyn’s stroller.

As I stood on the sidewalk holding my boy, he shook it out then put his boot to the thing that locked it in place and he did this like he designed the damned contraption.