Page 90 of Pulse
Troy shrugs. “I don’t know. It depends on what happens in their meeting, I guess.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Whatever keeps you safe. What do you want to do?”
I rest back on the couch and wonder what I’d choose if I could pick anything at all.Would I go home? Would I stay here? Would I fly to a tropical location and drink cocktails out of pineapples?
But as I imagine every scenario, they all have one thing in common. He’s about six-three, with slate-gray eyes, and a mouth that can perform magic. No matter where I see myself, I see him there, too.
“Do you know what I think?” I ask.
“No. What?”
“I think you’re stuck with me, Mr. Castelli.”
He smiles. “Do you know what I think?”
“No. What?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
My blood heats as I absorb the way he looks at me.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“Tell me.”
“How would you feel about ordering a pizza for dinner and just lying in bed for the rest of the day? We can watch a movie or, you know, you could find other ways to entertain us.”
He hops to his feet. “I’ll get the menus.”
I laugh, getting up, too, and follow him downstairs.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dahlia
“To be clear,” I say, groaning, “this is not what I had in mind when I suggested you could find ways to entertain us tonight.”
He either misses the sarcasm altogether, or he’s a sadist who enjoys torturing me. Either way, his amusement at my displeasure from doing squats and lunges across the backyard for the lasteternityis misplaced.
“You did great,” he says.
“I never endeavored to be great at this. Being a mediocre lunger and squatter is something I can absolutely live with.”
He holds the door open for me. “You should never accept mediocracy, especially in something that you hold the potential to excel in.”
I stop in the foyer and smirk at him. “There’s one time and one place that I care about my ability to squat. And, fortunately for me, it’syourstamina in that situation that’s the weak link.”
“Smart-ass.”
I laugh, following him into the kitchen. “The pizza should be here any time. Think we have enough time to grab a shower?”I smack his ass as he walks in front of me. “If we shower simultaneously, it’ll save time in the end.”
“Has that ever worked for us?”
“Not once.”
We laugh together, something I’m grateful for. I wasn’t sure how we’d navigate our earlier tiff—he had every right to be angry—but we seemed to find a helpful way to communicate our way through it. I was glad he trusted me with his concerns about shouting. It made it easier to be genuine in my remorse, too.
