Page 47 of Whatever Will Be

“Fine, but I’m paying.”

“You seem to misunderstand what buying you lunch means.”

He opens the passenger door. “We’ll arm wrestle for the check.”

I smack his muscled ass. “You’ll lose.”

We drive for ten miles before spotting signs for a restaurant that doesn’t specialize in supersizing fries. He wins the battle over the check when he excuses himself from the table and takes care of it in secret while I’m still digging into my Cesar salad.

I pop a mint into my mouth. “I’ll get you back.”

He passes me a slow, wicked grin. “I can think of a few other things you can do for me instead.”

“You stared at my tits when you said that.”

“I stare at your tits all the time. Haven’t you noticed?”

We’re back on the road when I remember something I’ve been wanting to ask him.

“What are your plans now that you’re back in Lake Stuart?”

His face changes, becomes closed and wary. “Playing it by ear. Maybe I’ll buy a boat.”

“Miami probably would have offered more boating opportunities.”

He nods absently.

I chew my lip, and then force myself to stop. “There are rumors that the brewery is on the verge of bankruptcy.”

“That’s interesting.”

He doesn’t sound interested. He sounds irritated.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He frowns. “What for?”

“Discussing the family business is probably painful.”

“You mean because I was disinherited and thrown to the wolves.”

I wince at the fury in his voice. Yet his tone also reveals something. Trent carries a lot of anger around with him. His motives for returning to Lake Stuart are not simple.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he says.

“You didn’t.” I touch his leg. “You’re good to me.”

“That’s comical. I’m not widely known as a good guy.”

“I don’t care. I’ve already classified you as one.”

He glances down at where my hand sits just above his right knee and smirks. He also changes position slightly, which gives me ideas about what’s on his mind.

“You’re beautiful, Gretch.”

My hand crawls up his leg, traces the seam of his jeans. Trent responds with a low noise in the back of his throat and he tightens his hands on the steering wheel.

“Fuck,” he swears even as he moves to give my hand better access. “Quit torturing me.”

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