Page 41 of Make Me Yours

Shivering at the feel of his breath warm on my neck and his lips so close to my ear that they kiss my skin as he speaks, I say, “Nah, I’m tough, I can beat them off myself.” Then I realize how that sounded and add as he laughs, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He grins—that big, easy smile I’ve only ever seen when we’re alone, the one that makes him even sexier—and winks. “You’d better be. I’m not in the mood to share you with anyone, let alone other men.”

Ignoring the fizzy bubbles his words send rushing through my blood—I can’t take the romantic things he says too seriously, or I’ll really be in trouble when he leaves—I let him take my suitcase and follow him around to the back of the Subaru.

Weaver pops the trunk and slides my bag in beside his much fancier leather one in the slightly funky-smelling storage area.

Someone dumped bait on his car Wednesday night, the one night I wasn’t on his boat this week. We got lucky with that, and with no one seeing me leaving his place while they were trashing his rental, but Weaver had a hell of a time finding someone willing to detail the car.

Not only was the mess gross, but people in town seem to be taking sides between Weaver and Mark. Both auto mechanics in easy driving distance are Mark’s friends.

But a few hundred dollars over the usual detail price convinced one of them to switch loyalties, and Weaver had a security system installed on the dock with a view of both his parking spot and the yacht earlier today. The next time someonecomes to deface his property, he’ll be able to see who’s behind it and take the footage to the sheriff’s department.

I would say I can’t believe people are being so petty, but trashing Rodger Tripp’s car was practically a town pastime. It got so bad in the past few years that he spent most of his time at his vacation home in South Carolina and only came to town for important meetings or family celebrations.

But Weaver isn’t Rodger, a fact he proves by smiling as I present him with his cookie. Rodger hardly ever smiled and never over something as simple as a sugar cookie decorated to look like a dragon with giant teeth.

“And what’s this?” he asks, holding it up to the light streaming from the bare bulb above the back door.

“It’s a killer imaginary friend,” I say. “That’s what our club pick was about this time. Elaina always makes cookies to match the book on Halloween and Christmas. She made extra this time to be sure I had one to share.”

His expression softens. At first, he wasn’t sure about sharing our secret with both Elaina and Maya, but he came around.

Maybe because he trusts my judgement and taste in friends.

Or maybe because he doesn’t care if we get caught as much as I do.

Yes, Weaver is a discreet person, but I’m the one whose entire family will turn against her if we’re found out. Dad’s disappointment, I could handle—it’s not like he hasn’t disappointed me more times than I can count—but I don’t want to lose the respect of my extended family, and this could literally kill Gramps.

His cholesterol is high and he’s been short of breath lately on more than one occasion. He needs to watch his diet, exercise more, and avoid flipping his lid because his granddaughter betrayed the family with a member of the evil Tripp clan.

Gramps now has multiple t-shirts he’s had specially printed to express his ire with the Tripp family at dock meetings. “Tripp Lobsters Taste Like Oppression” was the first one, but I personally prefer, “Don’t Tripp and Fail at Dinnertime. Get your lobster from a real indie fisherman!” The illustrated lobster giving a claws-up on the front is pretty darned cute, and I like the sketch of our family boat in the background.

“Should I eat it on the way or save it for later?” Weaver asks, circling around to open the passenger’s door for me—another first.

I stop, staring at the open door, my stomach flipping.

He’s changing everything. Pretty soon I won’t be able to live my life without reminders of Weaver around every corner.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Does the car still smell like herring?”

I shake my head and force a smile. “No. I just…” I lift my chin to meet his gaze. “No one’s ever opened a car door for me before. Or any door, I don’t think.”

He rests his hand on my waist, fingers molding to the curve of my hip beneath my slinky black dress. Technically, I opted out of a costume for our Halloween party this year, since I had to be dressed for a fancy dinner right after, but these clothes feel as much like a costume as my Bigfoot suit from last year.

I’ve never worn anything like this before. The silky cotton of the dress hugs my every curve, with a deep V in the front that reveals a scandalous amount of cleavage and a slit up the right side, all the way to the thigh. Paired with a fake fur coat from Elaina’s well-stocked closet and a pair of relatively sensible high heels from Maya’s—she’s seven inches shorter, but we wear the same size shoe—and I look like a completely different person.

I look glamorous, posh, expensive…

Staring at my reflection in the mirror earlier, I knew I should feel confident as hell in these clothes, but…I don’t. This is just acostume, a disguise. The real me is the girl in oilskin pants and a waterproof slicker, with her hair up in a knot and Carmex caked on her lips to keep the worst of the chapping at bay.

He knows that. And he likes her, too, the inner voice whispers as Weaver bends to kiss me again, making my head spin.

The kiss is firm, but also careful. He’s doing his best not to smear my lipstick, I realize, and for some reason that makes me feel better.

Weaver sees me, he really does, and so far, he seems to like every side of me— from the goofy girl who made him watch cartoons in bed, to the kinky woman who relishes making love like we’re locked in a wrestling match between the sheets.

When he pulls away from the kiss, he murmurs, “I’m just getting started, woman. Tonight, I’m going to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”

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