Page 66 of Boss Me

Cooper had wrapped and unwrapped my ankle. He’d touched my sweaty foot and made sure I took my pills and drank water. He’d gone dancing with me, and he actually danced, which I hadn’t dared hope he’d do. And then he brought me home and gave me amazing head, not caring if he got off or not.

And what had I done? I’d dragged him out to a club where he didn’t even drink—probably because he wanted to please me—and danced with a dozen guys, hoping he’d notice, stomp over like a caveman, and drag me into some dark corner and kiss the shit out of me.

I’d been a brat.

Cooper didn’t need a brat. He needed someone who’d take care of him, who’d keep him balanced so he didn’t drop everything and run away.

I could do that. Starting today. And the first step was to get him back to the office where he belonged. So he could take care of people like Mimi and Marlee and everyone else.

And Jackson Jones? I felt the corners of my mouth lift. Cooper had never given him a blowjob. Sure, they were friends, and I’d never begrudge him that, but Cooper was mine now.

Mine.

I pinched myself and grinned at the pain.

After I’d showered and wrapped my ankle, I hobbled out onto the deck, where he sat with his tablet. Coco jumped up from where he lay at Cooper’s feet and ran to me, his nails tapping on the wood deck.

When Cooper glanced up from his tablet, his smile rivaled the brightness of the morning sun. He set down the tablet and bounded—no, strode; Cooper Fallon didn’t bound anywhere—to me. His fingers curled around my clenched jaw and lifted it right before he landed a soft, coffee-flavored kiss on my lips. “Good morning.”

“G-good morning.” His touch melted me. I pressed up against his chest and breathed him in. Strong island coffee, the crisp cotton of the seashell shirt I’d bought him, and a hint of spearmint.

“Down, Coco!” Understanding Cooper’s tone, Coco stopped jumping up on my knees and sat at my feet.

“How’s your ankle?” Cooper gripped my shoulders and leaned back to look at it.

“Fine. I—I wrapped it.”

“Good.” He kissed my temple—God, I was a puddle—and, with a hand cupping my elbow, led me to the table where a spread of fruit and pastries welcomed us. He settled me in the chair next to his and poured me a cup of coffee with cream and a healthy spoonful of sugar.

“After breakfast, I need to go into town. I’d like you to come with me if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Oh?” I sipped the perfectly sweetened coffee. “What are we doing in town?”

He dug into the fruit bowl and spooned some onto my plate before he served his own. “Shopping. As much as I like the clothes you bought me, I could use a few more shirts.”

I plucked at his sleeve. “Don’t bullshit me. You hate this shirt.”

His lips curved up. “I like this shirt. I hate the one with the lizards.”

“I like it, too.” I straightened his collar and smoothed a hand down his chest. Shopping was something boyfriends did together. Was that what we were now? “Okay, I’m in.”

After breakfast, Mateo drove us to town and followed at a discreet distance as we walked past the tourist shops selling T-shirts and shell necklaces, past the big jewelry store that sold the larimar the island was famous for, past the liquor store that sold rum imported from Puerto Rico and other nearby islands. Coco didn’t worry about discretion; he trotted at our heels and turned up his nose at the other Coconut Hounds who slunk in the alleys.

Instead of walking into one of the island-wear shops, Cooper turned down a side street. The sidewalk was rougher here, pushed up by the roots of the enormous trees that shaded the street, and when he gripped my hand, my heart pitter-pattered.

There were no tourists on this street with their tropical-print shirts, blinding-white sneakers, and baseball caps. Here, people in battered straw hats and white linen guayaberas pulled shopping carts behind them or else carried string bags. Shopkeepers leaned in doorways, calling out to the passersby in Spanish.

And they knew Cooper. Some people nodded shyly. Others walked up to him and engaged him in conversation. He smiled—not the sunny smile he’d given me that morning, but a polite one—and chatted right back. When an older lady in a faded floral dress pinched his cheek and raised her eyebrows at me, he gripped my hand and called me his novio. Even my high-school Spanish knew that one. He’d introduced me not as his amigo, but his boyfriend. A grin stretched my face.

When she kissed his cheek and walked on, I squeezed his hand. “So I’m your novio?”

His cheekbones pinked. “What would you rather be called? There’s a word here for friends with benefits, but I—” He winced. “That was my great-aunt.”

He was right. We’d never been friends. And I doubted the word was polite. “Novio is perfect.” I pulled him down so I could kiss his cheek, and he didn’t pull away. He put his arm around my waist. He glanced back at Mateo, who was talking with his great-aunt, and gave him a hard stare.

We passed a grocery store, a shoe repair shop, and a barbershop. On the other side of the bakery, Cooper opened a door, and a bell jingled above us.

“¡Tío! es Miguel,” he called out.

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