Page 40 of Sunshine & Sinful

Todd swallows hard.

Sunshine doesn’t relent in that same no-bullshit tone. “You picked up a hobby.”

“Whatever he says isn’t true, Kali. I swear it,” my lunch date says, focusing on me.

“Your name isn’t Anthony?” Sunshine sneers.

Todd taps the side of his fingers on the edge of the table. “Fine. Maybe that part’s true.”

“Do you wanna have the rest of this conversation here, Anthony? Or should we take this to a place a bit more private?” The biker flicks his gaze toward the exit.

Visibly gulping, Todd—Anthony, whatever his name is, looks between us for the right answer.

Not giving him a chance to respond, Sunshine twists in the booth enough to give me all his attention. “We’re gonna ride home with our good friend Anthony, Sweets. You good with that?” He brushes the back of his fingers across my cheek and waits patiently for a reply.

If Sunshine says that’s what we’re gonna do, that’s what we’re gonna do.

“Sure,” I reply, following his lead.

“You good to drive?” he addresses me, brow popping in question.

“Don’t you usually do the driving when we’re together?” I tease, and Sunshine’s stern expression softens a fraction. The cutest smirk flashes at the corner of his mouth and is gone a blink later.

“Normally, yeah. You’re my passenger queen.” He winks, and my heart skips a silly schoolgirl beat.

“Queen, huh?” I smile.

“Yeah, Sweets. You’re a fuckin’ queen. My queen.”

Gah. This man and his words.

The stupid raven butterflies take flight in my belly.

If that doesn’t make a woman feel special, I don’t know what does.

Flashing me a final wink that communicates—I’ve got you. Just roll with it—my seatmate then turns back to Todd-Anthony.

“Asshole.” Sunshine’s chin lifts. “Give the lady your keys. We’re gonna kumbaya in the backseat,” the sexy biker orders.

For whatever reason, Anthony doesn’t fight when he stretches back, pulls the set of car keys from his front pocket, and slides them across the table to me. I secure them in my fist just as Sunshine waves our waitress down and asks for boxes to go. Hand still cuffed around the side of my neck, he reaches into his back pocket and wrestles his wallet free. Without a word, he drops the leather bifold in front of me. Taking this as my cue to pay the bill, I extract a crisp fifty and slap it in the center of the table.

Pleased with me, Sunshine squeezes my neck in affection before reclaiming his wallet and slipping it back into place as our waitress returns with the to-go containers.

I dump what’s left of my food into the Styrofoam, and Anthony does the same before we move. Sunshine shoos the liar from his side of the booth with a stern flick of his chin as we slide out of our side together. I drop Anthony’s keys into my oversized bag and snatch my daisies from the tabletop.

“Let’s go.” Sunshine holds my food and ushers us fromthe diner, his hand on my lower back and Anthony a few feet in front of us. We don’t speak as we climb into his Toyota—them in the rear, me in the driver’s seat. I set my purse on the empty side and adjust everything to my height.

“We’re gonna talk to your bitch of a boss when we get to your place,” Sunshine announces in the quiet car as I back out of the space and turn on my blinker to enter the main road.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anthony grumbles.

“Sure, you don’t.”

The ride to the liar’s place is uneventful. Every now and again, I seek Sunshine in the rearview mirror, and he flashes me a friendly smile. When we arrive at the single-story, I’ve visited plenty of times, I click the button on the visor to open the garage door and ease us inside. Knowing we don’t want Anthony to get any dumb ideas, like running from us, I shut the garage with the same button as I turn off the car. They’re the first to exit the vehicle. Anthony pushes a handful of buttons on his alarm system panel outside the garage entrance, with Sunshine following him closely from behind, watching his every move.

I wait for them to disappear inside before I shoulder my purse and enter his 1970s-style home, which hasn’t been updated since the decade it was built. The walls are covered in bright, patterned wallpaper or wood paneling. The floors are green shag, even the kitchen—where the green carries over into the vintage appliances that still somehow function.

As I enter the living room, Anthony sits in the center of his basic brown sofa, back straight, palms on his knees. Sunshine stands post in the center of the space. There’s a small handgun on the nearby recliner—likely the piece from Anthony’s ankle.

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