“No. I’m not.”

“You’ll like their steaks,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “They have a great filet.”

“I don’t like steaks,” I lied. I loved red meat, all kinds of red meat. I was a meat girl, meat and more meat.

He arched a brow as his thumb smoothed over the inside of my wrist. “Please tell me you like steaks. I don’t know if we can be friends if you say you don’t.”

I almost laughed, because that was ridiculous. “I like steaks, but—”

“Perfect,” he murmured, tipping his head back. “Did you bring any dresses with you? I’d like to see you in a dress.”

I did bring summer dresses and the appropriate shrugs with me to hide the scars, but that was beside the point. “Why do you even want to go out with me?”

“Because I like you.”

My heart jumped in my chest, and if it had hands, it would have been clapping happily. “You can’t like me.”

“I’ve already told you that I want to fuck you. You can’t forget that.”

Holy crap. “I kind of blocked that out.”

He laughed deeply, clearly amused. “You can’t be surprised that I like you.”

“Fucking and liking are two different things.”

“Yes. And no.” His eyes locked with mine. “Are you saying no because you don’t think you’re pretty?”

Holy crap on a Conquistador.

“I know.”

I tried to pull back this time, digging in my feet, but his arm curled, keeping me in place. Panic dug acid-tipped claws into my skin. My chest rose with a deep breath and I forced my eyes to narrow, giving him the most bitchtastic look I could come up with, anything to take attention off how he’d hit my rejection right on the head.

“I know,” he said again, tugging me forward as he spread his legs. I ended up between the V of his thighs. Close, too close to him.

I didn’t understand that statement, so I continued staring at him with my bitchy glare. “Let me go.”

One arm slid around my back and he kept moving his thumb up the inside of my arm. The touch, his closeness, all of it was doing strange things to my body. My knees were going weak while every muscle was tensing. “I already knew about the pageants,” he said, keeping his gaze on mine. “Before you showed me the picture and the trophy last night, I already knew.”

There were no words.

“Your mom used to talk about it a lot, tell us how pretty her baby is. Not used to be, but is.”

I was going to kill my mom.

“Clyde would talk about it, too,” he went on, having no idea that I just added Uncle Clyde to my murderous list, and then I’d have to off myself for last night, because I’d done the same thing. “He wasn’t a fan of the pageants or the way your mom paraded you around. Neither was your dad, right?”