The Last Boss' Daughter

“Paul does not.”

Something flits across his face but I don’t have time to process it before he’s stoic again. “Paul is shit and not really your husband. We don’t have to talk about Paul anymore.”

I nod. I don’t like talking about Paul, either. “What about you?” I ask. “Girlfriend? Wife? Boyfriend?”

He smirks on that last part, and I’m glad, because it was slightly risky. “None of those,” he tells me.

“That’s good.”

“Is it?” he asks, one golden brow shooting up.

“Well, any of those might object to the tree pinning,” I point out.

“True enough,” he allows.

I drink a little more beer.

“Sorry it’s not wine,” he puts in playfully.

I narrow my eyes at him as I set my beer back down on the table. “Did you take my chicken parm out of the oven?”

He nods, unapologetic. “I did. Didn’t want you to die. I’d have to find a show or something to fill my evenings.”

I bite back a smile. “What will you do now that I don’t need your protection anymore?”

He shrugs, slowly bringing his beer to his mouth for a sip, never breaking eye contact.

I’m not sure what we’re doing here, exactly, and a wave of nerves threatens to hit. I don’t want to be nervous, so I dodge it by, well, diving right in.

“Planning on stalking me tonight?”

He’s not at all sorry for the stalking. I’m not surprised. “Unless something better comes up.”

I smile, slow and suggestive. I’m pretty sure I’m already in too deep, but I’m not about to admit that or back down now. I’ll figure it out as I go. “What constitutes better?”

He flicks a glance at the food on the table in front of us. “Not sandwiches.”

I smile again, looking at my own turkey sandwich. Turkey. Cold turkey. Cold feet.

I don’t have cold feet, but I also don’t have my own bed.

“There is the small matter that I don’t actually have a house,” I point out.

He seems unconcerned. “We don’t need a house. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

I picture him taking me against the tree in a loincloth, his hair loose, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

As I’m amusing myself with mental images of him pulling a kinky Tarzan, he says, “Tell me something else about you.”

“Like what?”

“How old were you when this shit happened?”

“The marriage shit?” He nods. “I was 18.”

Liam scowls. “Jesus.”

I try to keep it light. “You mean you weren’t married at 18?”