Page 95 of Love Without Demands

Is he asking my boobs? Maybe I should order them a margarita.

Rider casually draped his arm over the back of the booth, not quite touching me, though I was exceedingly aware of the possessive nature of the motion.

“We’ll have an order of patatas bravas,” Rider said, dropping the tips of his fingers to my bare shoulder.

Charles smiled over at me. “And for the lady?”

“My ladywill be sharing with me,” Rider replied coolly, though his eyes were anything but. The side of his large body was suddenly pressed directly against mine, and his fingers wrapped around my shoulder.

As soon as a chastised Charles scurried off to the kitchen, I lifted an eyebrow at the man beside me. “Your lady?”

“While you’re with me, you are mine, and I don’t tolerate other men leering at what’s mine.”

“Awfully presumptuous of you,” I suggested. “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

“Then you wouldn’t be sitting in this booth with me right now,” he replied with another of those cute but smug half-smiles.

Keeping my tone noncommittal, I hummed and changed the subject. “What do you do for a living, Rider?”

He took a sip of whatever clear liquid he was drinking, his blue gaze holding mine over the rim of the short glass. “I’m in the family business.”

“And what business is that?”

“We provide… goods and services. How about you?”

“I actually have two jobs. During the day, I write fortunes for fortune cookies.”

He grinned. “Oh really? Let me guess. You write sappy ones about secret admirers or dreams coming true.”

“Nope. I try to make people think with my fortunes. I did one last week that read,That wasn’t chicken.”

Rider barked out a laugh. “Definitely thought provoking. Tell me another one.”

Tapping my chin, I thought about it for a second. “This is one of my favorites.Help! I am being held prisoner in a fortune cookie factory.”

Shaking his head in amusement, he remarked, “I’m a little afraid to ask what your night job is.”

“I’m a professional cuddler,” I informed him, barely able to keep a straight face.

“That’s not a real job,” he scoffed.

“It is. Look it up.”

Rider’s lips curled upward before he took another drink. “And what, pray tell, does a professional cuddler do?”

“People hire me if they’ve had some past trauma or suffer from depression. Proper cuddling can solve a myriad of problems. It’s a type of therapy,” I said breezily.

“And you think you’re a good cuddler?” He allowed a bit of skepticism to color his words.

Taking a drink of my margarita, I flashed him a cheeky grin. “Oh, I know I am. Care for a demonstration?”

He smirked. “Depends. How much is it going to cost me?”

“I think I can give you a freebie since you’ve bought my drinks.” I took one of his hands between both of mine. “First of all, tell me what kind of trauma you’re dealing with.”

His lips twisted to the side. “Let’s see… when I was five, my goldfish escaped.”

I burst into giggles. “Escaped?”

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