The wind doesn’t even touch his buzz cut, and it’s sexy. How it stays in place. He’s holding my hand, and that’s sexy too.

And dangerous.

Danger! I pull my hand away. “Let’s keep it real, okay? There’s no point in pretending shit if we’re just fuck buddies.”

“Really now?”

“Absolutely.”

“So, what am I supposed to do? What’s my role?”

He’s amusing himself; I scowl.

“Nothing. You be yourself—an asshole—and I’ll be me.”

“Charming as always?”

“Wow, seriously, what did you have for breakfast today?”

“You’ll be my woman.”

“The way you say it like I have almost no choice is irritating. But yes, fine. And we just . . . fuck. On occasion. And on that day when I have to kiss you, I’ll dance, making a complete idiot of myself. Then we finish with whatever terms, and I leave.” I stare out the window, but I hear him laugh, like I’m hilarious.

“I happen to hold my fuck buddies’ hands.” He grins and stubbornly takes my hand back. I groan, and he laughs.

“What have you got to lose? I know you haven’t been with a man since me. I know that guy at the hotel parking lot was a friend.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know,” he dismisses. “What do you have to lose, letting me hold your hand? I’ve held it tons of times before.”

I hesitate. I want to say something snarky, but the way he looks at me, his face uncharacteristically somber, calls for the truth. “Because you’ll hold my hand, and I’ll get used to the way it feels, and before I know it, you’ll let go of it . . . again,” I say, my heart hurting as I pull my hand free once more.

His hand comes to rest on the wheel, clenching it tight. I stare out the window, then burst out, “You’re . . . it’s not like you’re normal, or me . . . or this is normal. Dude, we’re in the middle of a fucking concert tour, with all your whore dancers licking you up. I’m just the one you’re banging.”

“You are the one I’m banging, and I like my hands on you. Deal with it.” He grabs my hand again, giving me a don’t-test-me squeeze. I hesitate. His hand is warm in mine, and the air swirls around us. He rubs his thumb into my palm. “I fucking like it, Pink,” he growls.

God, he exhausts me. Wears me out. I want to put up my walls, but instead I feel like crashing.

After driving for a while, we stop at a diner. “Everybody’s going to recognize you.”

Uncaring, he puts on his aviators, pulls out a navy blue cap, and pulls me inside, lacing our fingers together. He tugs me into a booth at the back, then sets his arm around my shoulder. “What do you want?”

I flip open the menu, acutely aware of his thumb absently rubbing my neck as he looks at his menu too.

The waitress takes our order, and when she leaves, Mackenna pulls off his glasses, turns my head around by the chin, and starts kissing and nibbling my neck in a way that makes my toes curl. I end up leaning into the nook of his arm and cuddling a little as we wait for our food. “I like driving you around in that Lambo,” he lazily admits, running a heavy hand down my hair. “Getting that pink strand of hair tangled up with your black.”

Delightful little tingles race through my bloodstream. This is how it could have been with us. This is how it could have been if I’d told my mother the truth. If he’d shown up one day. Or we simply hadn’t needed to run away.

“Admit it, you like the Lambo.” He rubs his silver ring over my bottom lip, the smirk on his face adorable.

“It’s so fucking uncomfortable,” I hedge.

“Huh. We really should find other uses for that mouth of yours.”

He shoves all five fingers of one hand into my tangled hair and I arch my body closer, pressing my breasts to his hard chest to let him know I want him to kiss me again. Reading me perfectly, he kisses my lips—softly, as if I’m fragile. As if he wants to memorize taste and texture and shape.

“Guys with bikes kiss their women harder,” he says. “Maybe we should trade the Lambo for a bike? Get something with power rumbling between your thighs?”

Already, there’s something rumbling between my thighs.

His voice.

The way it affects me when it gets all husky.

“There’s no way I’m riding a motorcycle on a highway.”

“No? No bikes?” He chuckles and spares a long, hungry look at me, his eyes laughing too. “I know what you’d enjoy doing. Other than me.” There’s that smirk again.

“You do, do you?” I think I’m smirking too as I raise an eyebrow in challenge. I’m such a good bluffer, I bet he has no idea I’m squeezing my thighs together under the table, fighting to quell the ripple of need running through me.

He prolongs the moment as though to heighten the suspense, his finger rubbing up and down the length of my neck now. “Well . . . do you want to know? Pink?”

God, I can’t stop grinning. I feel . . . young. Carefree. Alive. Sexy. Cherished. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway, Kenna.”

He slips his hand under the table and cups one of my thighs as he nods to my plate and whispers, “Finish your meal and I’ll show you instead.”

Shortly after, on our way to this mysterious place, we pull up in front of a gas station to feed the Lambo’s apparently voracious appetite for gasoline. While I get a bottle of water, Mackenna gets some gum, M&M’s, and corn nuts, and we head out again.