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I narrow my eyes as he lets out another infuriating chuckle. Releasing his grip on me, he leans forward and peers through his windshield at the clear blue sky. “Pretty sure it isn’t going to fall today, so you’re okay.” He glances over at me. “Trust me?”

I nod because I’m too close to letting my emotions overrule me, and the only thing I’m sure of is that I don’t want to cut our time short, so I rein it in.

“I’ve got you, Natalie,” he assures softly before gassing the truck. A minute later, a light melody drifts through the speakers, the lyrics wrapping around my heart in solace. Even as he keeps his eyes on the road, I feel his gentle, soothing caress from feet away.

FOURTEEN

“Feel Like Making Love”

Bad Company

Natalie

“Oh my Glod, Easthon,” I mumble around a mouthful of succulent white crab, butter dripping down my chin as my eyes roll up in pleasure.

His lips tilt up in amusement. “Yeah? We loving it so much we’re calling out to a higher power?”

“Hell yes, thank you, and you,” I chime happily to our waitress when she delivers another half-pound of snow crab tableside. She and Easton exchange a conspiratorial grin, both entertained by my enthusiasm as I use my butter-coated hands to lift my dark beer, greedily gulping back the cold suds before blotting my face briefly without much care.

Clearly, I’m at the no-fucks-given stage of my almost quarter-life crisis.

But as the beer eases the sting and the crab goes down, I find myself gradually lifting out of my weeklong funk, thankful for the reprieve—even if it turns out to be short-lived.

The mouthwatering company chuckling across from me—delighting in the utter ass I’m making of myself—hasn’t hurt either.

After a long, long drive filled with music, Easton decided to draw an end to my pity party by luring me into conversation. Not long after, he insisted we eat at The Crab Pot, which sits on Miner’s Pier perched on the edge of Puget Sound.

Due to the lunch rush being over, we managed to secure a table on the enclosed porch, spaced away from others with a waterside view. With Easton’s back facing away from prying eyes, he’s hardly recognizable to most.

So far, we’ve managed to escape the paparazzi, but I can’t help feeling that our luck may run out the longer we linger in public. Even though he’s been out of the public eye for some time because of the Sergeants’ gradual withdrawal from the spotlight, he’s still newsworthy—especially if sighted with a female who happens to be stuffing her face with shellfish.

Right now, I can’t bring myself to care as I inhale the bounty before me.

“Do they feed you in Texas?” Easton taunts.

“I feed myself,” I quip back emphatically, using my mallet to smash into a claw.

“But no seafood?”

“Shrimp,” I shrug, “my mom has an aversion to seafood, especially shellfish, so we never really have it, even when we travel. Trust me, if I had eaten this, I’d remember it.”

“Oh, I believe you,” he pokes through another chuckle.

Ignoring him, I pull apart the cracked claw to draw out a chunk of meat before popping it into my mouth.

“Easton,” I whisper breathlessly, grabbing my fork and shoving the outer tong into the softer side of the leg before ripping into it the way he taught me. He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table as I toss my prized meat into one of four drawn butters. “I’m dead serious when I say this . . . you may have to cut me off.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to. This is too entertaining. In fact, I can guarantee I’ll be enabling you. Psst,” he whispers, giving me the come-hither finger and drawing me closer to him. Eyes locked, he gives me a sexy flash of teeth as he retrieves a piece of crab from my cheek and discards it amongst the mountain of shells I’ve accumulated.

Temporarily distracted by him, I try unsuccessfully to push out all wayward thoughts—including his full lips—before returning to my mission.

“God, I really needed this.” I lift my beer with the clean sides of my palms and take a sip, nearly dropping the heavy glass mug onto the table. Exhaling happily, I lift my finger when the background music cuts off and the first few notes of a new song chime in.

Ready for the challenge, Easton kicks back, sipping his beer, listening attentively before he confidently speaks up. “‘Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic’ by The Police.”.

Grabbing my phone, I pull down my screen and tap my Shazam app as the title comes up, along with the band name.

“Unreal,” I say. “You haven’t been wrong once today.”

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