Page 72 of Perfect Boy

“Ryann,” I say sternly. “Look at me.”

Slowly, her eyes find mine, and she widens them. “Yeah?”

“I didn’t want her to hug me. Or to kiss my cheek. I swear.”

“It isn’t a big deal.” She shakes her head. “What was it? Like an old friend?” She shrugs her shoulders. “It’s fine.”

“That was Rosie,” I murmur.

Her body freezes, and she bobs her head up and down once. “Your ex, Rosie?” Her lips purse together. “Oh. Oh, I see. She seemed…nice?”

“I hadn’t seen her in a long time.” I cup her face, bringing her mouth closer to mine. “You can pretend like you aren’t jealous, but if it didn’t bother you, you would have walked right over.” My eyes narrow. “I find it really fucking hot that you’re jealous, Ry baby. In fact, I find it so hot that it makes me want to fuck you right here in front of everyone in this mall. Trust me, the only woman I want touching me is my wife.”

She blinks a few times. “I…I’m not—I wasn’t—”

Kissing her, I shut her up. Dragging my hand lower, I pull her against me slightly. Hoping my hardening cock won’t be noticeable to everyone walking by us.

“You were. But it’s fine. If I saw another guy kiss your cheek or hug you, I’d want to kill the motherfucker.” I stop, catching myself. “I wouldn’t because I wouldn’t want to upset you. But, yeah…I’d be pissed.”

Kissing her once more, I take her bags from her. “Let’s go, Tiny Dancer. It’s time for you to meet my mama.”

Her eyes widen, and she gulps.

“Okay,” she utters. “Let’s go.”

26

Ryann

I’m going to throw up.

Yep. We’re driving down Watson’s driveway, and I’m going to puke. Or pass out. Maybe even die. I don’t know. My stomach is turning like it’s a washing machine. And my hands are clammy even though my body is trembling and cold.

What if she hates me? And then what?

Watson loves his mom. I mean, for God’s sake, he keeps the candles she gives him. He brags about her cookies. He freaking buys her ice cream! Of course he’d leave me if his mother hated me.

I can’t bake. Or cook. Jesus, I burn Toaster Strudels. I don’t care if my house smells like a batch of fresh-baked cookies; I’m no homemaker.

This was a terrible idea.

“I can’t cook,” I blurt out. “Or bake.” I gulp. “And I wash my whites and colors together. And I never use fabric softener because it’s expensive.” I drag my hand over my face. “What was I thinking, coming here with you? We can’t tell your mom the truth. We can’t tell her we’re married.” My lip trembles.

“Hey,” Watson says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “I don’t care about any of that stuff. I know how to cook. I can cook for us. And when it comes to baking—fuck it, that’s what bakeries are for, right?” He looks over at me, smirking a bit. “Besides, if I need something sweet, I’ll just eat my wife’s pussy.” He winks, attempting to lighten the mood. It helps—but only for a second.

“I’m serious, Watson,” I utter softly. “If your family hates me…where will that leave us?”

“It would leave us married with awkward family holidays.” He shrugs. “But that isn’t going to happen because she’s going to love you. They all are.” He pauses, cringing. “And…you’ll get to meet my sister. And my niece and nephew. And Jameson too. You already know Carson.”

My head flies to his. “Watson! You didn’t tell me your sister would be here.” I throw my head back. “Your sister will definitely not like me!”

“Why wouldn’t my sister like you?” He frowns. “She likes everyone.” He laughs. “Well, besides Rosie.”

“Not. Helping,” I hiss. “Rosie looks like the type of girl who has golden locks curled to perfection and wears pink sweaters to match her perfectly manicured nails. Everyone probably likes her! And your sister didn’t.” I look down at my bright blue nails, painted with my dollar-store polish, and cringe. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Stop,” he growls. “No spiraling today. You’re beautiful. I hate the color pink.” He stops. “Well, besides when you wore it for The Nutcracker, of course. And Rosie’s hair is made up with a lot of extensions.” He winks. “You’re good, Ryann. And you’re real. They’ll love you.”

I look out the window, admiring the land Watson grew up on. So much open space to just…run. And be a kid. On both sides of the road is nothing but open fields. But off in the distance, near the house, I see a farm pasture. Watson wasn’t lying when he said he grew up on a farm.

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