Page 41 of Butterfly Effect

“I don’t think I can get into blood play. But it’s okay if you are. No judgment.”

By the way she silently stabs her fork into the pears and walnuts on her dish, she might be. My fake girlfriend has anger issues. I’ll have to sleep with one eye open.

“My turn,” I announce, wiping some vinaigrette from my chin.

Gabehmphsin reply.

“Gabe Finch: thirty-one years old—turns thirty-two Oct 7th, birthday party surprise forthcoming—works for Canadian Sporting News, used to cover golf before the NHL, played basketball for the University of Waterloo on scholarship. Six feet?—”

“Don’t you dare guess my weight.”

I would never, but I have no idea what she’s worried about. She looks fuckinggood. Toned arms, strong legs, and an ass as round as the day is long. I keep going, “Couldn’t find any info on your parents.”

“That’s on purpose. It’s called privacy.” Gabe’s gaze stays on her food. “Dad owns a plant nursery in Kitchener.”

“And your mom?”

Her chewing stops, eyes going blank as she echoes my words. “She’s not around.”

The statement is vague but somehow clear. A heavy cloud—an unexpected commonality—tethers us in the long pause that follows.

There’s that twinge in my chest again. I wanna take away the pain in her eyes. Maybe she’d take away mine, too.

With one last bite, she shoves her dinner away. “I’m full.”

“That makes both of us.”

I pay the check, and despite her earlier threats, Gabe lets me lead her by the hand through the cafe again as the restaurant staff and crowd watch us leave.

“Wasn’t that fun?” she says dryly.

“And it’s not over yet.” I motion to the loitering paps in the street. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

Her glasses slide over her eyes. “No, thanks.”

“Will you listen to me for once?” I murmur into her hair, slipping an arm beneath her jacket and around her hips. The onslaught of flashes continues without relent. “I’m trying to do something nice for you.”

The small muscle in her jaw ripples. “Fine.”

“Oh, God,” she laments as I pop up the door of the Lambo. “Youwouldbring the most obnoxious car.”

I buckle her in. “I told you to be careful about making fun of me once, didn’t I? This car’s big enough for me to bend you over in.”

Another fiery blush. I’ll never get enough of it.

The engine rumbles as I rev it before pulling from the curb.

“I hate this car,” she says under a breath.

“You hate everything.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s a little bit true.”

Her ass shifts uncomfortably in the bucket seat, attempting to shrink herself in the space.

“What do you have against my car?”

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