Page 91 of Bad Little Bride

Because he knows you.

I shake the thought.

My feet move quicker than I’d like to admit, and I swiftly snatch it up, a little more aggressively this time, smelling it to see if it’s full of his scent as well. It is.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, not wanting to assume, and hating the tiny thrill the thought brings me.

I turn it upside down.

Sure enough, a second charm falls into my palm, and while it really shouldn’t, a smile breaks across my lips as I get a good look. Like the other, it’s made of a bunch of tiny diamonds, these ones molded into the shape of the Hummer.

To remind you of the way you drive me wild,the tag reads.

I bite the inside of my lip, staring down at what I dare to call thoughtful gifts.

Knowing Enzo, they could be his way of reminding me of his threat.

Little does he know, the idea of someone watching him and I together does quite the opposite to me. I think I might enjoy something like that.

But alsoknowing Enzo,which I’m not sure I could claim I do, he would probably get my shirt halfway off and then freak out and pull that trigger early.

Something tells me he wouldn’t be okay with someone seeing what he keeps sayingbelongs to him.

Or it could be his way to placate me—give me seemingly meaningful gifts so I forget all about his caveman bullshit, burning my birth control after just one day of use.

Fisting the charm, I look out the window, replaying the end of our night.

Why am I not more bothered by his stunt?

Why do I sort of want to laugh at how outraged the thought of me taking birth control made him, and when did I start to consider his little outbursts adorable?

God, he would laugh if he knew I used that word in any relation to him.

Maybe I’ll call him that at some point today.

A throat clears behind me, and I spin with a sigh, already knowing who it will be.

Grandma dips her chin.

“Let me guess. He wants me at breakfast in ten minutes?”

“Mr. Fikile isn’t home. He was called away but asked that I arrange for you to have company for a mid-morning brunch.”

My brows jump and I smile. “Can I call?—”

“The calls have already been made. Get yourself ready and be in the garden in one hour.”

She turns and walks away.

Rolling my eyes, I decide I’ll listen, if only to see who she’s invited.

Color me fuckingshockedwhen the only person sitting at the dinette table is Bastian Bishop.

“Boston.” He dips his chin.

“Bastian.” I raise a brow. “Where’s my sister?”

“At The Enterprise,” he says simply, and jerks his head to the left.

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