Page 63 of Masks and Mishaps

It’s actually alarming how fast he moves. My coat has barely settled back into place when he gets the guy against the wall and shoves his knee into his stomach.

“Fuck!” the asshole blurts out.

“I’d kill you if we were alone,” Dalton hisses. “And I’d make you apologize, but that would require you to look at her, and you’re never going to do that again.” Dalton shoves him higher against the wall. “Are you ever going to harass and touch another woman? Say no.”

“No,” he manages. “Please—”

Finally, Dalton releases him, and he collapses back onto the sidewalk.

Straightening his spine, Dalton reaches into his back pocket and takes out his wallet. Licking his fingertips, he combs through a stack of cash, counting bills before he faces the two friends. “Don’t press charges,” he orders, holding the cash out.

The friends glance at each other, neither moving to take the money.

“Leave him,” Dalton reiterates, “and don’t let him press charges.” He extends his arm even further.

They cave. A moment later, they’ve left their friend on the sidewalk, where a random passerby is now kneeling by him.

“Shit,” Dalton mutters, patting his pockets. “I’m out of hundreds. What cash app do you use?”

The passerby’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Like, Venmo or…” Dalton waits. “You want a twenty?”

“Dalton,” I hiss.

“Fine, forty,” he offers.

“Dalton. You came for me,” I call out.

He freezes before he hands the passerby a random assortment of cash and returns to me.

“You came for me,” I repeat, unable to tear my eyes from his handsome face. “Even though I told you I needed space, you still came for me.”

His expression tightens as he bends to look at me. “In what world,” he says, “would I not be the first one here if you needed someone? And yes, I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I am. I’m going to be here for the rest of your life, no matter how much it kills me. And I’ll film with you, and I’ll walk you down the aisle at your wedding—wait,shit. That’s not right. I’m your stepbrother, not your daddy—”

My jaw lowers.

This entire situation is a convoluted, chaotic mess, and this guy is, quite simply, the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met—but he’smymess and it has never been more clear that I’m his too.

I grab his collar, and yank him down into a kiss.

And kissing Dalton is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. His lips are gentle, but every other part of the kiss is relentless in the right ways. Our mouths crush together, tongues twining amid the warmth of our breath, laced with the taste of lemon and liquor and mint I’ll always associate with Dalton.

“Fuck,” he groans into my mouth like he’s been waiting years for this kiss, and he has—and I have. And in the haziness of finally finding contact with the very mouth I’ve let explore me over the last week, I find an unprecedented feeling of protection, of stability.

Breaking the kiss is brutal, but one of us has to say what comes next. Keeping my mouth near his, I put my hands on his cheeks. “I’m so glad you came for me.”

“I always will,” he responds with a tinge of roughness in his voice. Then, a smirk rises on his lips. Even though he smashed some guy’s face, he’s still very much Dalton Cavendish when he says, “In more ways than one.”

I slap his arm. “You’re such a weirdo,” I say, laughing now.

He kisses me again—and again, and again.

“Take me somewhere,” I request, speaking into his mouth.

“Where?”

“Anywhere you want. I don’t need a plan tonight.”

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