He nods. “Yup. There’s also this burger place in Portland called Killer Burger. We should go there for dinner. Maybe Voodoo Doughnut for dessert. That’s if you’re up for it.”

“Are you kidding me?” I nearly shout. “Of course I’m up for it.” I look him in the eyes. “Thank you, Huxley. This is . . .” I catch my breath. “This is really thoughtful.”

This is why I’m falling for this man. This right here.

That smile.

That kind heart.

That attentive, sexy mind of his.

“I wanted to do something nice for you.” He pinches my chin with his forefinger and thumb. “I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done for me.” And for some reason, that comment diminishes my hope that this is something more. He’s grateful for the work I’ve done for him. Deep sigh. I can’t let that ruin my night, though. He might not be in the same headspace as me, but at least I can enjoy tonight. He looks at his watch. “Think you can get ready in half an hour?”

“On it,” I say while squeezing the shirt to my chest. “I have the perfect shorts to wear—ugh, you took my clothes away. I don’t have jean shorts.”

“I had your clothes brought over this morning. Figured you’d want something casual to wear tonight. Everything is in your room.”

“God bless you.” I stand on my toes, lift up, and, because I have a death sentence, I place a kiss on his jaw. “Thank you, Huxley.”

And then with my T-shirt in hand, I run up the stairs to my room so I can get dressed. I can’t believe I’m about to see Fleetwood Mac in concert.

But more importantly, I can’t believe I’m going on a date with Huxley Cane.

Kelsey: He’s flying you to Portland? What? For a date? Where can I find myself a Huxley?

Lottie: He has two brothers.

Kelsey: Unlike you, I don’t mix business with pleasure. But enough about that. HOLY SHIT, Lottie, you’re going to see Fleetwood Mac. Did you tell Mom?

Lottie: Not yet. I figured I’d send her a picture.

Kelsey: Where are the seats? Front row?

Lottie: I didn’t even look. Probably not.

Kelsey: He’s flying you to Portland in his private jet. I’m pretty sure he didn’t mind spending money on expensive tickets.

Lottie: He has the tickets, I’m getting dressed. I’ll let you know where the seats are when I look at them again.

Kelsey: What are you wearing?

Lottie: He gave me a vintage tour T-shirt with the Rumours cover on the front, so I’m wearing that and my ripped jean shorts. Hair down and curled, and my boho hat. Ankle boots.

Kelsey: It’s perfect. Think he’s making a move?

Lottie: I honestly can’t think about it. I asked him if it was a date and he said yes. But he also thanked me for the work I’ve done. This was what I was worried about. I really like him, and I don’t think he returns the feeling.

Kelsey: Then just enjoy. Maybe this is the olive branch, him trying to connect the two of you on a different level.

Lottie: I’m nervous. All the teasing, the sexual tension, that felt easy, but a date? That just feels all too real.

Kelsey: Because it is real. Don’t waste your time worrying about it. Just enjoy it, because when do you ever get whisked away on a private jet?

Lottie: Never.

Kelsey: Exactly. Enjoy the moment, sis. Take lots of pictures and enjoy yourself. I love you.

Lottie: Love you, too.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Eighteen

HUXLEY

“You’re gripping the armrest pretty tightly. Are you nervous?”

Lottie looks away from the window and says, “Just never been on a plane this small. It’s different.”

She’s sitting across from me, looking sexy as hell in short denim shorts, her vintage T-shirt that she tied in the back so it shows two inches of her midriff, and that goddamn hat, which is doing things to my libido I never expected. When she came down the stairs in her outfit, I knew I was in for a long night of staring and appreciating, with the secret hope that when we’re at the concert, she’ll let me hold her.

“Want to do something to distract you?”

She raises a brow and I roll my eyes.

“Nothing like that.” I reach to the side panel of my seat and pull out a pad of paper and a pen. There’s a table between us so we have the perfect playing space. “Want to play some Hangman?”

“Is that Huxley Cane branded stationery?”

“Just Cane Enterprises.”

“God, you are rich.”

I chuckle. “I am. So, how about it? Want to play?”

Cutely, she cracks her fingers and says, “I’ll have you know, I’m an expert.”

“Yeah, guess we’ll have to see about that.”

I draw out the game board and then put spaces on the paper for my chosen word.

Lottie takes her time, studying the paper. Her eyes shoot to mine, then to the paper and then back to mine. She leans back in her chair, crosses her arms, and says, “Pussy.”

My eyes nearly bulge out of my sockets. “What?”

She taps the paper. “That’s your word. Pussy. I’m right, aren’t I?”

How the actual fuck?

She smiles and chuckles. “I’m right. God, I told you I was good.” She takes the paper from me and fills in my blank spaces. “Are you impressed?”

“Terrified.”

The laugh that falls past her lips is so goddamn sexy that I’m tempted to pull her across this table and put her on my lap, where I can kiss her senseless.

Fuck do I want to taste those lips again, desperately. But for the first time in my life when it comes to a woman I like . . . I feel unsure. I wouldn’t say we’ve had the best track record when it comes to getting along, nor has our relationship so far been one filled with ease. It’s been tense, uncomfortable at times, a lie. That’s no way to start a relationship, which makes me question, does she even want to start anything with me? Although, I’m sure I saw happiness in her expression when she asked if this was a date. I think.

She marks down some spaces on the paper and says, “Okay, your turn.”

I study the six-letter word. Glance up at her. Then back at the paper. I grip my chin and say, “O.”

Her eyes flash to mine, they’re lit up with humor as she marks O as the first letter.

Smiling widely now, I say, “M.”

“You know.” She tosses the pen at me.

“Orgasm.” When she rolls her eyes, I say, “You’re not the only one good at this game.”

“It seems as though we’re both perverts.” She presses her hand to her chest. “I’m uncultured. What’s your excuse?”

“Uncultured?” I laugh. “What makes you uncultured?”

She rubs her fingers together. “I didn’t grow up with money.”

“Money has nothing to do with it. Some of the richest people are uncultured swine. Complete assholes. Money has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, then tell me, what makes a cultured person?”

“Your heart. Your mind. Your soul. It has nothing to do with status and everything to do with who you are as a person.”

Thoughtfully, she tilts her head to the side. “So, based off those criteria, would you say I’m cultured?”

Giving her a hard time, I say, “Well, your heart is beautiful. Your soul is spotted with black, but overall, a kind one, and, well, your mind . . . that’s all kinds of fucked up.”

Her mouth drops open in amusement as she stands from her seat and charges toward me. I don’t flinch. When she reaches out to poke me with her rose-colored nail, I take her hand and pull her forward so she’s forced to sit on my lap.