“Your hoodie.” It wasn’t what I’d intended to say. I wasn’t even sure why I’d said it because I sure as hell didn’t want to give it back. It was oversized and comfy, the soft fabric hanging almost to my knees.

“I’ll get it later.”

I lifted my chin before blurting, “This can’t happen again.” At his silence, I continued. “It was fun. More than fun. And I appreciate you letting me come… over, I mean. I appreciate that you let me come over. I also appreciate you… You know. But what I’m saying is that we can’t do that again. Any of it. No more dinners. No hanging out. And definitely no kissing or… other things.”

He stared at me for a beat.

And then another one.

If he was anyone else, I’d worry he was pissed and about to yell that I was a cock tease, a prude, and all the other contradictory names incels called women.

But he was Ward, so he just threw his head back and laughed that full, easy laugh of his. “Fuck, you’re cute.”

“I mean it.”

“Whatever you say, neighbor.”

His words sounded less like an agreement.

And more like a challenge.

16. Never Underestimate the Power of Snacks

CHAPTER 16

NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF SNACKS

HOLLYWOOD

“You here early for another cooking lesson?”

Sitting at the bar in the clubhouse, I pulled my focus from the episode of House to look at Swedes. “Nah, not today.”

“Giving up already?”

“There was never a competition. Not to inflate your culinary ego any more than it already is, but we all know you’re the best chef.”

He didn’t even try to fight the smug smile. “True, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You give up on the chick?”

Just the memory of having Mac in my arms was enough to have me fighting a hard-on. If I let myself think about the way she felt.

How she tasted.

How she came all over my finger and rode it for more.

My control was good, but I wasn’t a damn superhero. I’d be at her place ASA-fuckin’-P, even if I had to break every traffic law to do it.

But that would go against what she claimed she wanted.

Which was why I told Swedes, “Fuck no. But she told me no more dinners.”

“And you’re listening?”

“Fuck no,” I repeated.

The way I saw it, a day or two of her healthy but bland as fuck frozen dinners would be enough to have her missing my cooking. If she didn’t wanna kiss or touch—or let me drop to my knees for a taste of the heaven between hers—I’d deal with that. But I wasn’t giving up hanging out with her. No fuckin’ way. I’d give her the night.

Or try to.