“Tell me where we’re going first.”
He pulls back as his chest beneath my hands vibrates with his silent laugh. “The shed. Obviously. Stop being difficult.”
“I’m being difficult?” I all but screech. “You took me to—excuse my language—the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, and then you blindfold me and drag me to some shady barn thing?”
He nudges my side. “Have I ever done you wrong?”
I throw my arms up. “Yes. Many times.”
“Like when?” The way he says it is like I’ve accused him of committing treason.
And they say women are dramatic.
“Let’s see. How about that time you wanted to explore a lake, and it turned out to be a landmine?” I put my hands on my hips.
“It was decommissioned,” he counters.
I huff. “Or when you took me to see ‘some cool art,’ and then we had to run from the cops because you were caught tagging?”
“Wasn’t a lie. The art was cool.” I can just imagine him cocking his chin up with a prickly grin.
“What about when you fed me undercooked chicken, and I was out with food poisoning for a week?” I say pointedly.
He’s silent for one beat, then two. “But did you die?”
I gape at him. “I was so dehydrated from throwing up, I thought I saw God.”
“No, you saw me. And I’ve apologized.” His voice drops a level, and I can feel the guilt seeping out of him.
I bite the inside of my cheek, because it was a low blow. He stayed up with me the whole time, tying my hair back as I threw up my guts, brushing my teeth when I didn’t have the energy to, and then he carried me back to bed.
“Now you’re a master chef who’s taken me hostage,” I say with a joking edge.
The week after that, he began using all these cooking terminologies like sautéing and braising. Mickey refuses to admit it, but I have a hunch he started watching cooking videos. There’s no way he went from undercooking boiled chicken to making homemade empanadas without the internet.
A pause lingers between us. “Yet you haven’t attempted to take off the blindfold again.” I launch into defense mode and twist my arms out of his grip, just like he taught me. “Cut it out. That wasn’t an invitation,” he snaps, then lowers his voice and says, “But well done. Good technique.”
My skin heats from the praise. Please, Isabella, contain yourself.
“Walk or carry?”
My breath catches in my throat. “Tell me what—"
“One.”
“Mickey, seriously, I—"
“Two.”
“Why won’t you tell—" My words end with a shriek when strong arms move behind my knees and sweep me off my feet. As it always does when it comes to Mickey, my body betrays me, and without thought, I wrap my hands behind his neck. “No!”
He chuckles. “Too late. You’re at my mercy now.”
I dissolve into his hold. Even though layers are separating us, we may as well be skin-to-skin. I’m on fire, and the only person who can put me out is him, even though he’s what ignited me. But this is a dangerous game. Something so simple shouldn’t unwind me so much.
“Put me down right now, Roman Riviera.”
I swear I hear him growl. “Do you want to find out if I have duct tape, too?”
My mouth clamps shut.
No… he wouldn’t, would he? Surely not…
“Good girl,” he muses.
I’m about to say something else. Maybe something snarky, but I really don’t want to find out if a roll of duct tape is hidden inside his leather jacket.
That kind of kidnapping scenario would be a little too much for me.
Just a little.
Okay, a lot.
The rhythmic thump of his feet along the ground and the soft sway of his movements could lull me to sleep. I admit that I’m disappointed when he lowers me to the ground. I have to pry my fingers apart to let go of his neck, and before I let go of him fully, I miss his warmth. I didn’t exactly dress for the outdoors, so the riding jacket doesn’t do enough to stop the autumn chill from sinking into my bones.
“Stay,” he orders. I lift my hands up to the blindfold, but he slaps them away. “Don’t touch.”
“I’m not a dog,” I seethe.
“Mmhmm,” he hums.
I grumble under my breath and cross my arms to preserve warmth while a bunch of banging and grunting happens a few feet to my right.
Please don’t be a dead body.