“On the menu …” I raise a brow.

Her mouth opens, but then she looks down, and I’ll be damned. Her cheeks grow a hint darker, like the day I had her on her back beneath me. Well, not that deep of a flush, but a flush nonetheless.

Suddenly her shoulders square and her face goes all plastic on me, the fun, flirty girl going intodare to judge memode. “We have house chefs with a rotating menu.”

Okay, definitely never had a chicken leg before.

The only chef who ever made me dinner was Darleen at the local Denny’s.

She’s waiting for me to judge, flipping her hair and pulling her mirror from her bag to check her reflection.

Still perfect, Rich Girl.

“What’s your favorite thing they’ve made?” I ask.

Her eyes slide my way, searching, but when she decides I don’t give a shit she’s got it all and I’ve got nothing, she answers, “I like all food, but sushi is probably my favorite at the moment.”

I nod and then shrug. “Never tried it.”

Her eyes bug out, but then she gives a sassy smile. “So does that mean next time it’s my turn to make you a dragon roll?”

I push the garbage into the bag at my feet and grip her by the hips, lifting and setting her on my lap. She spins, straddling me right here in the middle of the park, and I bring my hands around, making sure her skirt is covering her ass.

“There’s gonna be a next time, then?” Using my pinkie, I push her hair from her face, lifting my chin to meet her lips, but I only skim mine along her soft, pillowy ones.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’re a liar or not.”

“I’m no liar, Rich Girl.”

“Then where is the reward you promised me?”

My mouth curves slowly. “Someone’s been waiting.”

“Someone’s been busy.” She looks pointedly at the purple beneath my left eye. “Catfight?”

“Dog fight.”

Her lips quirk, but her gaze holds mine. She wants more.

“I run a fighting ring close to where I live. I find fighters, take bets, and solve problems.” I point to my eye. “This was a free shot I gave an asshole who thought he was tough.”

She nods, wiggling in my lap a bit, so I slide my hands up her thighs, stretching my fingers wide to see how much I can fit in my palms.

“Sounds illegal.”

“Only if you get caught.”

“Or if someone rats you out.”

“Songbirds get their voice boxes ripped out, Rich Girl. I don’t play.”

Her pupils grow larger and she reaches up, touching my lip ring with her thumb. “My life isn’t exactly straight and narrow either,” she admits, though it’s low and hesitant. Her gaze snaps to mine. “As in not at all. People who …singin my world are fed to the sharks.”

She stares hard, studying my reaction, and I kinda get the feeling she’s trying to figure out if I knew that already.