Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

That makes me smile, despite the fucking anvil inside my skull. "Did he believe you?" I rasp.

He shrugs, looking coy again. Or smug.

"What? Did he know you?"

He smiles. "Might've. Where's home, freckles?"

"Auburn."

He steps away from the bed and returns with a glass of water. "Drink that, babe."

I do, looking down at my phone so I don’t have to look at his face. I pull him up on Instagram, checking the page out. Fuck, he's really worked-out. Like a fitness model. But in short shorts, boots, cropped sweat-shirts…plus, weird model clothes that must have been for real photo shoots. There's this picture of him in ballet tights. Sweet baby Jesus.

"You want me to drive you?” he asks. “I won't hurt you. I know how it is."

I look up. "Are you a dancer?"

"Used to do some ballet. Tumbling."

I scroll through the page. He's got this way of posing. It's so...practiced. I guess he’s a real model. I scroll down more. There’s a few photos of him in Speedos—but they’re not Speedos; they look like really nice underwear. "Are you a stripper?"

"An e-stripper." He grins, smug AF. “Among other things. Listen, hun, I've got a rental. I'll drive you home, no big deal."

"You don't have to do that."

"All good. I was once a baby gay. New to the ways of clubs and too many martinis." Another affable grin, and I think I know why people follow him. "You want a shower first? The shower here is sick."

I shower in this massive, lots-of-headed shower, locking the door even though I don't think I need to. When I turn the water off, he knocks and tells me he's leaving some clothes outside the door. Gray sweats and a soft, white, V-necked T-shirt with a tag that says JAMES PERSE. I scoop it up, and two white Nike socks fall out.

Shit, that was really kind of him. I look at my own clothes, which smell like a bar, and tell myself I'll take this stuff off before he leaves me at my house. I have the thought as I'm dressing that it's a little weird he's being so nice, but it's hard to imagine alarm bells peeling when I emerge from the shower and find him wearing a Coach backpack purse thing, looking freshly showered in black sweats and a matching shirt to mine, and holding out a cup of...blueberries?

"For the drive," he says.

He wraps a finger under one of the straps of his pack. "Got some Propel in here, and Advil." He does a sort of winky face and the gun thing with his hand. "Berries first."

It makes me laugh, which hurts my head. Blueberries—everybody's fave hangover food. Right. "I'm supposed to dump these in my mouth while wearing this white as fuck shirt of yours?"

"Yours now," he says, leading me toward the front door.

I squint around the lush apartment, shocked at how high-end it is. How did I miss all this last night?

"Don't remember much?" He laughs.

"No."

"You got a wicked headache?"

"Yeah."

He gets the door for me, and hits the elevator's down button. I make myself eat some of the blueberries. They're frozen, which is weird.

"Got them for smoothies," he says.

I nod. My eyes ache. He's looking really hot, and he smells good, too.

We ride the elevator to the garage, where he walks over to a boxy, black Mercedes SUV. "Rental," he says. "Smells like lemons. Strongly. Brace yourself."

Oh God, he’s right. I’ve never smelled anything so lemony in my life.

"See?" He gives me a sympathetic look before digging around in his bag. He hands me a cold Propel and three Advil.

"You bought this?" I ask.

"No, I fuckin' stole it." He wiggles his hand. "Five-fingered discount." He gives me that Hollywood grin. "Why use cash when you can pay with adrenaline?"

It reminds me of something Ezra would say. I can't even think of what to say back. Dude takes it in stride, steering us out of the garage before I realize that he didn't call the valet.

"Recline your seat, babe." He reaches into the back seat as he waits to pull out onto the busy street, and he hands me a heavy black sweater.

My stomach lurches with a deja vu sensation. A second later, his hand touches my hair lightly. "Here ya go." He's holding out sunglasses.

"Are they yours?"

"It's not sunny." When I hesitate, he tries to put them on my face and fails, which makes him laugh—that soft, husky sound.

I put them on, still feeling sick. "You're really nice," I murmur.

"Just a normal guy." Another déjà vu moment. Fuck.

"In diamonds," I tease weakly.

"In gotdamn diamonds." He gives me a winky look that seems like it belongs on Instagram. Then we're moving toward the interstate. As soon as we get on I-85 south toward Auburn, he starts Sex After Cigarettes.

Cold sweat pops out on my forehead. Is the universe trying to tell me Ezra is replaceable, or more that I can never get away from him? He's in my algorithm.