Year 28 - J.L. Mac Page 0,45

buy it. You definitely aren’t driving my car.” I shake my head.

“Not gonna drive, Snow. Keys,” he orders with his lopsided grin in place making my heart buzz around in my chest. I glare at him for a moment pretending to debate whether to oblige him but truth is I am just enjoying staring at his face and that damned grin. Those lips…

“Fine, Broussard. Only our third date and you’re already ditching the Prince Charming act,” I grumble but hand him the keys, anyway.

“I have never been prince charming, Snow,” he says winking. He snags my keychain and smiles as he slips them beneath the table.

“What are y—” I ask narrowing my eyes at him.

“Shush,” he orders bossy as ever.

“Sy,” I warn.

“I’m tryin’ to concentrate, Snow,” he says impatiently. I huff and lean back in my seat, taking a long sip of my soda while I wait for him to see fit to clue me in. Minutes pass as he fiddles with my keys beneath the table and I toy with my plastic straw, flattening it then reshaping it.

Finally he gently slides my keys back across the table. I look up and reach for them but he grips my hand before I can take my keys and my hand back to my side of the booth. He tugs gently, motioning for me to slide out of the booth. He guides me to sit beside him and like some zombie in a trance I do as he wishes.

Gah! This boy-man has way too much power over me.

He pulls at my hand forcing me to sit. I freeze when he takes my hand in his beneath the table.

Is he seriously going for a hand job in my favorite restaurant? I don’t even know how to give one! What the hell, Sy?

He frowns disapprovingly and shakes his head. “I see your head’s in the gutter, Snow. While the idea of your perfect, soft hand on my dick is enough to keep me awake at night for a week, your lack of faith in me is pissin’ on my parade here so why don’t you just sit tight and humor me for a sec, huh?” he whispers with the ghost of amusement twinkling in his rich brown eyes. The tension in my muscles immediately dissipates. He takes my index finger in his fingers and presses it to the bottom side of the table, tracing it along the edges of a roughly etched R + S. Though another portion of my heart melts for him in that moment, I scowl at him feigning irritation.

He guides my finger along then brings the tip of my finger to his lips and presses a soft kiss against the pad of my pointer finger. “It’s our table now,” he declares proudly with my now germy finger still against his lips.

“That’s gross,” I mumble staring at his lips where they’re touching my finger. Little tingles buzz through my belly and… lower.

“Worth it,” he counters casually.

“Ya know, most boyfriends carve the initials somewhere people can see them,” I say quietly. He grins wide demolishing all my resolve to not fall for Sylas Broussard the pain in my ass, butthead, and proverbial boy next door.

“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there, and anyway it doesn’t matter at all who doesn’t get to see it, it only matters who knows it’s there without proof,” he says gently, his minty breath feathering across my cheek. One of his hands slides up the inside of one of my knees and stops high on my thigh. The warm feel of his palm so close to my center makes those tingly butterflies soar at supersonic speed down low.

“Okay,” I mumble absently, entirely too distracted by his face so close to mine, his hands on me and how right he is. Who cares who does or doesn’t see the carving? He didn’t put it there for them. He put it there for me—for us.

Us. There’s an “us”.

“More importantly,” he goes on. “You said I’m your boyfriend,” he says slipping his other palm up the column of my neck, coming to a stop at my jaw.

“Nuh-uh,” I swallow hard.

Yes! I did!

“It was implied,” he argues inching closer to me. “So,” he brushes his thumb back and forth across my cheek so softly I feel the need to close my eyes and lean into him, “here and now on our third official date, I Sylas Broussard accept that title—thank you by the way,” he teases and