Page 85 of The Prodigal

“If you fall out, just know I’m not circling back.”

I grin at Remington and all his sun-kissed hatefulness as he lowers the window so I can stick my head out. The air of the coast mesmerizes me with its tangy scent of ocean air and blue skies. I let the breeze woosh through my hair, filling me with sheer joy.

Well, for a moment, at least. Until Remington pulls off onto the side of the road.

“You better not need to pee again,” I threaten. “We’re literally steps from the entrance to the public beach. I’m sure they have bathrooms close by.”

Ignoring me, Remington reaches across me and opens the glove box like I’m not even speaking.

“I swear we are stopping for diapers on the way back to the room,” I tease.

“I don’t have to pee.” He glares, shutting the glove box and dropping something in my lap. “I thought you might want to remember this moment.”

I nearly cry at the sight of the black marker. “You pulled over so I could write my name on the back of the sign?”

It’s like my brain is trying to catch up with his goodness—the small window he gives me into his wonderful soul.

Even though I might not know everything about Remington Potter, I know this man is made for me.

I’m calling it early.

He’s the one.

“If you don’t get out of the car right now, I’m going to burn your fucking sign.”

I snatch the marker from my lap and grin. He’s such a diva. “Are you gonna sign it with me?”

“No,” he clips, getting out of the car and rounding the front before opening my door.

See? He’s the sweetest asshole ever to exist.

Taking his hand, I let him lead me to the wooden sign welcoming us to Little Florida. “What do you think we should write?”

Unlike one of the last signs, this one hasn’t been signed multiple times by different visitors. It’s bare and untouched. It’s ours, and ours alone.

“Say whatever you want,” Remington barks, his tone screaming how unimportant all this is to him, but his actions speak otherwise.

He didn’t have to stop here.

He didn’t have to remember the sign.

But he did, because, deep down, no matter what he wants people to believe, he’s thoughtful.

“Hurry up,” he demands, urging me forward. “I don’t want to be out here after dark.”

That stops me.

“What happens after dark?”

A groan falls from his parted lips. “You have until I get to five, then I’m leaving.” He holds up his hand and starts counting. “Five—”

“Gah, you’re even moodier after pussy. How does that happen?”

He sends me a glare. “It’s a talent.”

“It’s a whole pout, is what it is.”

I guess he really did want pussy for breakfast.

---