Page 47 of The Fix

“Yes,” I hiss and shove more of the material beneath my thigh. “I can’t lose my job over some … some …”

“Head?”

My cheeks heat. “Yeah. That.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Toby waggles his brows. “Don’t go getting red on me now.”

I grit my teeth. “You’re the absolute worst.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints a few minutes ago.” The smirk behind his mustache is downright sinful. “Or do you need a reminder?”

I’m desperate for a distraction—and some freaking pants.

How did we even end up in here?

“And stop calling me that.” I scowl, though, deep down, I like the nickname way too much.

But his head is tilted away from me, his hair a disheveled mess of attractive waves framing his face. He sniffs, his nostrils flaring with the inhale only a moment before his eyes go wide and he’s hopping off the bed.

“Oh, shit.”

He runs out of the room, leaving me confused and all alone.

Diving across the bed, I snag my pants from the floor and shove my legs through the material in time for him to call after me from the kitchen.

“Prune!”

I flatten the elastic around my waist and take my time joining the nuisance where he stands at the stove, serving spoon in hand.

Oh, crap. We left the burner on …

God, how careless—

“You’re not allergic to anything, right?” I blink against the sudden interruption and automatically shake my head.

“No …”

“Good, here.” A bowl is shoved into my chest, a layer of cheese already melting around the edges. “Oh, wait,” Toby states, his hand still clasped around the dish I’ve also got my hands on. My fingertips touch his, the heat of both the man and the meal stirring more crap in my already swirling head. “Is there a texture thing?”

“A … texture …?”

“Yeah,” Toby murmurs, his free hand coming to my chin and tipping my head back, his whiskey gold eyes meeting mine. There’s a bit of a crinkle at the corner, a softness to his features, and I block them both from my mind. “I mean … is there shit you won’t eat or touch because it feels weird.”

I shake my head.

“Good.” He steals the bowl from me and puts it on the island. “C’mere.”

“Why?” I blurt and immediately shake my head at myself. That’s not what I meant. “I mean—”

“Mama,” Toby enunciates, “come.”

Why, oh why, is that so dang appealing.

“I just meant why were you asking me that …” I mumble, joining him.

“Call me observant,” he answers dismissively, already peeling back the wrapper on a sleeve of crackers with deft fingers.

Fingers that were—

---