“Babe”—his voice is stern, but his eyes are soft—“picking up trash or not, you’re fucking gorgeous. I wouldn’t think twice about walking in there with you.”

I blush—like seriously blush—in a way I’ve never blushed before. “Stop lying.”

“Not lying. You look damn good.” He kills the ignition. “Now, let’s get you fed. You deserve a good meal after today’s contribution to society.”

He steps out of the car, opens my door, and extends his hand. I grab it, the warmth of his large hand burying mine underneath it, and we walk into the restaurant.

Hand in hand, like we’re a couple.

A relaxed ambiance collides with us the moment we enter through the doors. A man in the corner is playing piano as people sit at white-clothed tables—some with mimosa flutes in their hands, some with waters, and some with coffees. No one is dressed like me—no freaking one. Sure, there are some casual diners, but no one underdressed, who was picking up condoms ten minutes ago.

As much as I want to haul ass out of here, Lincoln’s words ring through my thoughts, crashing through my insecurities.

Fuck it. I’m starving.

Who cares?

It’s not like I’m interested in anyone but the man who already told me he gave no fucks about what I was wearing.

We stop at the hostess stand, where menus are stacked up with a basket of rolled silverware placed beside them. The girl behind the counter, complete in a white button-up shirt and black slacks, greets us before leading the way to our table in the corner of the room.

“I’m going to wash my hands,” I tell Lincoln before scurrying to the restroom and returning minutes later. Lowering myself onto the chair, I set my eyes on him. “You so planned this, didn’t you?”

He unrolls the cloth napkin and drapes it over his lap while I do the same. “What do you mean?”

“You planned to find me finishing community service, so you could take me to lunch because you love hanging out with me.”

He shoots me an amused smile. “What can I say? You’re cool … like a little sister.”

I cringe at those words.

Little sister.

That’s the furthest from what I want him to see me as.

“Oh God, never call me your little sister again.” I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. “That’d mean you’re like my big brother … and no way in hell can I say I’m sexually attracted to my brother.”