Page 48 of I Can't Even

“Whatever,” I said, pointing at the naughty one. “If your mama wants pancakes, then we’ll have pancakes. I have all the stuff for it.”

“Honey,” Garnett said quietly to the son I was now sharing an apartment with. “If you don’t marry this one, I’ll never forgive you.”

I snorted. “We’re nowhere near that point.”

“But you will be,” Garnett disagreed. “You will be.”

When I looked over at Hot Cop, he was staring at me with an amused look on his face.

He wasn’t denying his mother’s words, either.

Which only intrigued me more.

The man was overly sexy, had a great job, was nice and protective.

I hadn’t found a single thing wrong with him yet.

Which was pretty impressive seeing as I liked to pick apart my dates to the point where I practically created things wrong with them.

But Hot Cop? There was just something about him. He wasn’t perfect. I was sure of that. Yet none of the overhanded things he’d done so far had pissed me off.

What was up with that?

“I’m going to throw up,” I admitted two hours later as we drove to a Home Goods for a few extra essentials for Quaid’s place.

We’d been and gone from his house, and the moment I was there, I was already shaking my head and saying we needed to get more stuff, pronto.

I had no problem making do for however long I needed to, but I couldn’t share a towel with Quaid. The man had one and only one towel, and though I wouldn’t mind sharing a lot of things with the man, a towel wasn’t absorbent enough for two.

Oh, and he wasn’t lying about his dishes or cooking utensils.

The worst, though, was his lack of blinds or curtains.

The moment we dropped my bag off inside, we’d turned right around to head here.

Despite my overly filled belly.

“You ate three pancakes, a chocolate chip cookie, a blueberry muffin, half a honey scone, a macaroon, and bits and pieces of everything else my brothers had. I’m surprised I didn’t have to roll you out to the car.” He laughed.

I flipped him off, and he parked.

When I would’ve gotten out myself, he said, “Wait for me.”

Tingles and excitement danced in my belly as he rounded the hood of his truck, last year’s model of a Ford F-250 according to him, and headed to my side.

His head seemed to be on a swivel as he took everything in, making me feel even more inadequate at protecting myself.

Once inside, he kept more of an eye on the people around me than the stuff I was putting into his cart.

“This or this?” I asked him as I held up a set of blinds for him to choose from.

It was, after all, his place.

“What’s the difference?” he asked.

“These go up by just pulling the blinds up by hand,” I explained. “These you still have those little strings that always seem to get tangled up in everything.”

“No strings,” he said. “Do you think it’s completely necessary to have them?”

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