Tiger Lily - May Dawson Page 0,10

truck where my feet would go, and then swung up.

The cab was clean and air-conditioned to a refreshing cool after the heat in my car—and Love Blooms. I checked that the book was still in my purse.

“What’s that?” he asked, looking at the bright cover.

“Mm? Nothing.”

“Romance novel?” he asked. “I think Dylan secretly reads those.”

I nodded, and didn’t say anything else. I didn’t want to talk about romance with Blake.

Chilly silence settled between us as he drove us toward the garage.

Just as we neared my house, Blake said, “I don’t know why you hate me so much.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said.

Blake was impossible to hate. Easy to be annoyed by, sure. But impossible to hate.

He scoffed at that. “Sure, Tiger.”

The nickname just annoyed me right now, especially after my grandfather’s teasing.

“Could you let me out here?” I pointed out the window at my house so fast that my finger slammed into the glass, and I pretended that it didn’t hurt, but he noticed. Of course he did. “You can call me and tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ll check your car and stop by to let you know,” he said.

“You can just call me.”

“I can just stop by. I can walk.” He smiled at me, but it was one of those signature Blake I’m-about-to-rile-you-up smiles. That cocky smirk still brought out the very nice dimples in his cheeks. “It’s very convenient. You can walk to work too!”

“I’m not coming to work for you.”

“You can tell yourself you’re coming to work with me if it will make you feel better,” he said, stopping the tow truck in front of my house. He turned, putting his arm behind my headrest, careful not to touch me. The movement brought us intimately close though, and I was keenly aware of his hand braced just on the other side of the headrest, his corded forearm, the scent of white soap and mechanic. He looked so comfortable with himself. “Even though I’m a great boss.”

“I’m sure you are. You’ve got years of practice—now you’ve finally got the title.”

He laughed at that, and I took the opportunity to climb down from the passenger seat.

He jumped down from the cab. I glared at him as he reached past me to grab the rest of the shopping bags, and I started picking up bags as fast as I can, trying to beat him to them.

“I don’t need help,” I told him.

“Oh, bullshit,” he said and I glared at him harder, not that he ever seemed to notice.

As he walked me to the door, he told me, “Have a good night, Tiger.”

“You too.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Not if I see you first.

He strode back toward the truck, looking ridiculously fine in that t-shirt and the jeans that hugged his perfect ass.

No matter what I told myself, there were butterflies in my stomach as I watched him go.

It was probably from speed-eating all that ice cream, though.

5

The next morning, I laid in bed for a few minutes, studying the same crack in the ceiling that I grew up sleeping under. The crack ran from the wall above my closet, across the slanted ceiling to the tiny window seat that formed my reading nook. I traveled to Narnia and Neverland leaning against that window, whether the glass was cold during a snow day from school or rain droned against it steadily during a spring storm. To me, that particular window seat is the coziest corner in the whole universe.

For once, I had nowhere to be, no alarm going off. Brad wasn’t going to grumble at me because I hit snooze.

The cover of Love Blooms peeked out the top of my purse, which I left on my desk. After all, that garish cover was hard to miss. My bedroom was small enough that I could snag the book from where my purse hung over the chair back without leaving bed. Then, for old time’s sake, I settled into the window seat, even though it felt narrower than it used to be.

I flipped the book open to a random spot toward the middle. Oh, she’s fallen for a new guy. He’s a charming flirt who gets constant attention from women, with a rakish grin. Good luck with that, girlfriend. I remembered Brad lying to me as his side chick huddled naked in between my coats—god, I better get my coats dry-cleaned—and I almost flipped the book closed.

But Mr. Flirty has eyes for no one but our heroine. Other women throw themselves at him, but he