Page 41 of Can't Always Get What You Want

It hits me like a punch to the ribs—because she means it. She’s scared out of her mind, but she’s sayingyes.

I don’t push.

I don’t press for more detail.

“Would you be more comfortable if we established some… rules?”

Nova blinks back her confusion. “Rules?”

“Yeah,” I say with a small smile. “You know, boundaries. Terms. A dating clause.”

Her lips twitch. “Like a relationship contract?”

“Exactly.” I pause. “Clause one: no public declarations of love until at least date three.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the flicker of relief behind it caused by my teasing. “Clause two: no posting our giraffe cup baby on social media without the other’s consent.”

“Clause three,” I add. “You’re allowed to panic, but you’re not allowed to disappear.”

That quiets her. “These aren’t actual rules.”

Oh Nova—that’s where you’re wrong.

“They’re absolutely real,” I say, dropping my voice just enough that it vibrates with intent. “Binding agreement. No takesies-backsies. I’ll even put it all in writing if it helps your type-A heart sleep at night.”

Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “What about clause four?”

“That depends,” I say, leaning in. “Is that the clause whereyou admit you lay awake thinking about me, or the one where you kiss me across this table before this date is over?”

“Stop,” she says with a smile on her face. “Clause four: we don’t tell my brother. Not yet. If this goes up in flames, I don’t need him throwing gasoline on the fire before it has a chance to start.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t dare tell your brother until you were ready.”

That giant fucking cockblock.

“Clause five,” she goes on. “No kissing until at least the fourth date.”

Say what now?

“Then I’d like to formally schedule the fourth date,” I reply. “It is immediately following this appetizer.”

Nova snorts, and God help me, even that’s sexy. “You can’t just stack dates.”

“Says who?” I say, counting with my fingers. “This is date two. Dessert is date three. The awkward walk to the car is four. You let me open your door without mocking my chivalry, boom—make out sesh.”

“That's cheating.”

Eh.

Debatable.

“You’resmiling,” I point out. “You’re doing that thing where you try to pretend I’m not winning this argument, but your face is betraying you.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Clause six: no keeping score.”

“How many clauses are we going to have? I can count, but I can only go as high as ten.”

Nova laughs, her chest rising with the kind of full-body shake that’s impossible to ignore. And forgive me, but I’m human. My eyes stray downward—briefly, respectfully—to admire the absolute masterpiece that is her cleavage.

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