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“I call you Pickle because sometimes you’re sweet and sometimes you’re sour.”
I still hadn’t come close to mastering a french braid. That shit was pure witchcraft.
His masculine, protective vibe was sexy—there was no denying that—but I’d been given a job, and I doubted banging the brooding grump just to see if he’d crack a smile was part of the performance. But seriously, who doesn’t love a grumpy DILF?
There was something about him that made me want to poke the bear—irritate him with positivity until he smiled once, for Christ’s sake.
I loved meeting new people and exploring new places, but there was something to be said about being tied to a place.
Hell, if she was offering, I’d happily toss her around and show her just how worn out we could make each other.
“I’m Royal.” My brain stuttered. “Royal? Royal . . . King. Your parents named you Royal King?”
I looked around the crowded dance floor, trying to find some excuse to politely refuse him, when from across the bar, I saw Wyatt Sullivan stomping across the beat-up hardwood with murder in his eyes.
He said thats my woman!
I wasn’t a caveman. I didn’t intend to stomp over to them, pound my chest, and haul her over my shoulder. Though the thought of her perfect ass right next to my face again made my palm itch to smack it.
“You know some people think cooking is a love language.” I frowned at the water that was refusing to boil. “Love language?” “Yeah . . . acts of service. Love languages. It’s how people give and receive love.”
“You are so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
“Kids always know how to punch you in the gut, don’t they?” I blew out a breath and squeezed his arm. “They sure do, Red.”
“Is this one of those, If you love them let them go, if they don’t come back it wasn’t meant to be kind of things?”
“Hell no—that’s horseshit. You let her go so that girl can see what she’s missing. Then you do everything you can to convince her to bring her pretty little ass back home.”
If anyone would have told me that I would have Wyatt Sullivan, former NFL quarterback and head football coach, doting on me and impressing me with a romantic picnic, I would have called them a damn liar.
“I think you should take the job.”
You idiot! You were supposed to tell her you love her first!
