Page 91 of Embody

“You want me to keep that flippant lil’ mouth busy?” He stares at my lips while his own curls up in salacious challenge. “Or go on?”

“Go on,” I husk out my second choice.

He forces his eyes up to mine, glazed with a sheen of purpose. “Try not to say anything or argue ‘til I’m done. Please.” He places a chaste kiss on my lips, clears his throat and begins spinning the tale of his research on how much, at most, I could make from my weekend shifts at the diner.

My mouth gapes as a big lump of realization forms in my gut. I’d never really stopped to think about it—thank God, because it’s depressing as hell—but he’s right. Fifty-one measly dollars for four trips on a bus that, put together, almost last longer than my shifts,andbring my total down to forty-seven dollars!

“Bellamy, baby, don’t get sad. There’s good news.”

“Should’ve started with that,” I mutter, feeling a fool.

“You have the job offer from the little store you loved, remember? Take it babe, be happy. You’ll make better money, shop at a discount, and the nice owner you talked about and the business are both on the up and up.”

Men. Truly the world’s most mystifying creatures. They swear women are the irrational ones, acting on impulse and emotion, yet they never conduct themselves in opposition of that exact description.

Nope, they try to be the boss, with their “innocent suggestions,” blabbing, unchecked or filtered, gift-wrapping and handing us more information than we probably would’ve thought to ask about in the first place. “Outing” themselves, all the while thinking we’ll appreciate their Neanderthal nosiness.

Who are the irrational ones again?

Clueless, he digs himself deeper. “So just quit that diner job and give yourself a break before starting the other one, because I have plans for us this weekend.” He’s all smile, ear to ear, probably waiting on me to start cooing and thanking him for his brilliance.

“What plans are those?” I ask in a flirty tone, offering up big, innocent eyes.

“I thought we’d go stay Saturday night in the house on some land my Uncle Evan owns. He’s got tons of back roads and wide open space for you to practice driving your new car.”

“Practice? It’s not a rocket; I think I got it.”

He diverts his eyes and reaffirms his hold on me before muttering, “Practice never hurts, babe. You’re probably just a little rusty is all, and besides, it’ll be fun to get away.”

He just said I was a shitty driver!On top of everything else I haven’t even begun to address, he thought he’d put that cherry on top of his “shitstorm coming your way” sundae?

I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

See, I was just planning on lecturing him, explaining all he did wrong, then forcing a Rom-Com on him as punishment. Now?It is so on. Jefferson Tate Kendrickwilllearn if it kills me…but I’d put good money on it killing him first.

“You may have a point,” (he doesn’t) I sugar-coat my voice. “Give me a minute and we’ll talk about it.”

I slowly climb off his lap, give him a quick kiss as if nothing’s wrong, and head down the hall to my bedroom.

I silently close the door and click the lock, tiptoeing over to my dresser. Why? I have no idea. It just feels like an “espionage on tiptoe” moment.

My reflection in the dresser mirror stares me down in mockery—she doesn’t think I have it in me to pull off my sinister plot twist—or my clothes.

I’ll show her. Indignation is one hell of a motivator, and hell hath no fury like a woman who just got called a bad driver.

Especially when she didn’t want the damn car in the first place!

Or the new apartment.

Or…no Bellamy, save the sermon for him.

With an extremely deep breath, and another, I turn my chagrin to courage and slide open the bottom drawer, rummaging in the very back until I find it.

Release the secret weapon.

I change quicker than I can lose my nerve, fluff my hair and open the door, soundlessly heading down the hall toward him.

“Don’t turn around,” I sternly command to his back. “Here’s how this is gonna work, Jefferson. In a second, I’m gonna come around where you can see me, and we’re going to discuss a few things, but you arenotallowed to move or touch me with anything but your eyes. Understood?”

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