Page 118 of Hunted: Season Two

Insist on wearing matching outfits?

Actuallydrinkobnoxiously flavored beverages?

Car gods help me now.

“What do you like to drink in the winter, Mutt?” Rabbit lovingly links her fingers with Kid’s other set as we collectively move forward. “Whiskey? Scotch?”

“Guinness,” The Kid and I answer in tandem.

She keeps her snarky smirk. “Should’ve known.”

“Probably,” our boyfriend teases in return. “That’s basic winter Sir shit 1-0-1.”

“So, he doesn’t get seasonaldepression; he gets seasonalobsession?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t get obsessed,” leaves me less firmly than it should. “I jus’ fuckin’ appreciate the shit, like any normal manwould.” An innocent shrug is wedged between declarations. “I mean who in their right mind doesn’t appreciate things thatdark,” my gaze begins traveling downward across Rabbit’s frame, “andthick?”

“I certainly do,” Kid concurs on a flirty eyebrow waggle.

“You two are the wrong kind of thirsty.”

“Or therightkind,” our boyfriend practically purrs.

However, before I can add anything to his proclamation, an unfortunate vibration in my pocket begins requiring my attention.

The instant my grip is separated from his, he mumbles under his breath, “Ifuckingknewit.”

Rather than acknowledge him, I check the tow request.

Mentally calculate the cost of me just arriving.

Weigh the decision of taking the ticket versus letting someone else.

Sure, it’sfarfrom where I am now, but not too far from the shop.

And if they don’t need more work, that’s a quick drive back to get into their stockings.

That I like.

Maybe I’ll even have a Guinness afterward.

You know.

Just to stay in the fucking holiday spirit.

“Need to go?” Rabbit cautiously questions, redirecting my attention to her.

“Yup.”

“Ifuckingknewit,” pouts our partner as he slides an arm protectively around her waist.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Kid. You’re pissed, but can you be pissedandkiss me goodbye?”

Kipp grows an almost bashful beam – the same way he always does when I insist, he kiss me in public – indicating he won’t stay mad.

He can’t.

---