Page 22 of The Rogue and His Flower

“Dalton…”

“Okay, we communicate. Got it. What else?” I say, fixing my gaze back on the road ahead.

“Secondly,” she continues, “We respect each other’s personal space. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so it’s important we give each other room to breathe.”

“Understood.”

“And finally,” she says, her voice softening. “I also think we should try to find some common ground.”

“Common ground?” I question, slamming my foot against the brakes as a reckless driver suddenly swerves in front of us.

Daisy lurches forward, and I throw my arm out instinctively even though she’s buckled in. The other driver has the nerve to curse at us before speeding away in the opposite direction. I give him the middle finger as he passes.

“Seriously, can no one drive properly around here?!”

“Jesus,” Daisy exclaims, eyes wide.

“What a prick,” I add, scowling. “You okay?”

“You seem to be asking me that a lot lately,” she retorts, cocking her head to the side as she studies me.

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not acompletearsehole,” I say before pulling off once more. She throws me an incredulous look. “Only ninety-nine point nine percent of the time?”

“So you were saying?” I counter, bristling.

Daisy clears her throat before continuing. “I thought we could try and figure out some activities or interests that we could both enjoy doing together. It might make this arrangement more bearable if we can share some positive experiences.”

“Positive experiences? This isn’t a therapeutic experiment.”

“Yes, positive experiences,” she persists.

“The only activities I enjoy are racing my motorbike and fucking,” I comment wryly. “I know fucking’s off the menu.”

“We’ve already established that,” she confirms evenly.

“And I’m pretty sure you’re not interested in watching me race.”

“I never said that,” she argues.

“So you’ll come to the track?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Maybe,” I reply, noncommittally. Frankly, she’ll probably serve as more of a distraction than anything else. “So what do you like to do?”

She thinks for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “I like to draw.”

“You draw? What, like landscapes or people or something?”

“Well, more like clothing,” she admits. “Though I am known to decorate my own wrapping paper with silly doodles. Drix has kept every single sheet of wrapping paper I’ve decorated with my art since we were kids.”

I raise a curious brow. “I didn’t know that.”

She shrugs. “Well, now you do.”

“So you design outfits?” I ask.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I like fashion, I thought that was obvious.”

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