Parker presses against me before she pulls back, untangling our lips. But I still hold her cheek and cradle her back.

I thought kissing her might be the best moment of my life, but that actually comes after—it’s the flex of her smile into my hand.

“If you were nervous,” I whisper. “I couldn’t tell.”

Parker’s breath fans over my lips. “You were right. You don’t need the practice.”

But I think I do. Because from what I can tell, her lipstick remains perfect, but she checks it anyway, digging a small mirror from her purse. When she’s satisfied, she returns the mirror to her bag, seemingly shocked when she finds me staring. But I’m the shocked one a moment later because she lifts her hand, pressing a finger to my lips.

Another perfect smile blossoms across her face and makes me melt.

“I’ve got your mark on me, don’t I?”

Parker continues smirking. “Are you going to be embarrassed if you do?”

“No. I’ll wear your lipstick like a badge of honor like a real man.”

She giggles. “I have a wipe.”

“Leave it. Let everyone see who you really belong to.”

I dart my tongue out and lick my lips, savoring her garnish as I shift against the leather of the seat. If I don’t redirect my brain to the task at hand, I’ll be stealing all the attention as I run alongside her with a tent in my pants.

I give the partition one more look before checking the window. We’ve maybe crawled a block. “Fuck protocol?”

Parker nods. “Rebels only.”

Before we even make it to the red carpet, we’ve already had our photo snapped a dozen times by lingering media and amateurs with phones. I have to wonder if anyone will see what’s really going on behind the scenes of the pictures where I, in a tux, lead Parker, in a gown, as we run through Boston traffic while tailed by a very frustrated Agent Samuels.

If they look close enough, I wonder if they’ll see how wildly fucked I really am.

Chapter 12

“I bet you know where all the bodies are buried.”

I don’t say this to Heath Morris, the general manager of the New England Rebels, but the real body in question is that I never imagined Fitz could kiss like that. Or more, kiss me like that. If that was practice, I’m not sure I’d ever be prepared for the main act.

The irony, of course, is that it’s me with the backyard cemetery. But I don’t mind poking fun at Fitz for a bit, certainly not after he had the audacity to kiss me in a way that’s left my knees weak when I’m stuck in heels for the night.