Page 71 of The Prodigal

We arrive at the restaurant a little while later. It’s not fancy, but neither am I. Remington, on the other hand, is a straight-up diva, especially when he eyes the diner with contempt.

“We’ll get the food to go,” I say, cutting off any shitty remark he might add. “There’s a motel up ahead. Maybe it has a vacancy.”

Remington shrugs, like he doesn’t give a shit, but the dark circles under his eyes suggest otherwise. He’s more exhausted than he’s letting on, and I can’t have my hateful hero more exhausted than necessary. I, too, try to consider my dick’s needs. The world doesn’t need that kind of assholism running around tired and hungry.

“I’ll run in and grab us something,” I say when Remington just stares at the dangling open sign that’s missing several bulbs. “Do you want a burger?”

Remington seems to consider it for a half second, but then his lip curls.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I tell him carefully, spotting aLive Bait Sold Heresign in the window. “Well, let’s put it this way, it can’t be worse than bad tuna.”

An amused noise slips out from Remington’s twitching lips, but he manages to hold back the smile. “Fine, but if it sucks, you’re not allowed in the closet tonight.”

I can’t help it; I bark out a laugh. “How dare you ban me from the cool-kid closet!”

For some reason, I find this threat my favorite one.

“The closet is for people with good taste in food,” he explains, like this is the most normal conversation to have with someone. “Not for people who play Russian roulette with their digestive tracts.”

“Oh, my gosh.” I fall back into my seat and clutch my chest. “You so sound like a doctor’s son right now.”

He shoots me a glare that is downright adorable. “Unlike my ‘doctor father,’ there’s only one way I’ll get on my knees in a sleazy motel bathroom, and food poisoning isn’t it.”

Well, that sounds both epically hot and disgusting, but I would never counter his bullshit with a blush. “So, you want one order of the fresh bait fish, then?”

“You’re getting on my nerves, Eve.”

I flash him a smile and grab the door handle. “I might annoy you, 101,”—my eyes drift to the bulge emerging in his pants—“but your dicklovesme.”

“Don’t say a word,” I whisper. “It was an honest mistake. I was just trying to be friendly.”

Remington side-eyes me as a playful grin tugs at his lips. “I’m not sure our postpartum clerk would agree with you there.”

I groan, burying my face in his shirt. “I thought she was pregnant,” I explain.

Remington laughs. “Shewaspregnant—just not anymore.”

“Stop talking about it. I feel terrible.”

A light touch feathers across my back.

Is the take-no-mercy Remington Potter actually consoling me by rubbing my back?

“Don’t feel terrible,” he whispers as the clerk comes back with our room key. “Feel encouraged.”

I pull back to look at him. “Encouraged?”

He nods, plucking the key from the clerk’s fingers without a thank-you. “Yes, encouraged,” he repeats, holding the door open like the gentleman he is, “to beunfriendlyfrom now on.”

I whip my head around and find a big-ass smile and a whole lot of smugness on his face. “Thank you, but I think I’ll get my conversational tips from people who don’t inspire murder on a daily basis.”

With a chuckle, Remington brushes past me. “Suit yourself, but you don’t see me leaving here feeling terrible.”

Somehow, I manage to follow him out to the car, without strangling him or staring at his ass—for too long.

But then he had to impress me with his chivalry.

“I need to shower off your river sewage. Do you think you can steal that chair four rooms down for me? Or is that too unfriendly for you?”

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