Page 111 of Handle Me

Hardly. If I did, I would tie you up every night.

Promise?

Only one way to find out.

How long was Lola Bishop going to torture me?

MARCH

“Does he ever stop texting you?” Beatrice complained, taking a sip of chardonnay as my phone dinged. She was the only friend I’d confessed my secret relationship to. Mostly, because she’d caught me with my hand down my pants sexting him last fall.

“I think he knows when I’m with my mom,” I said. Thankfully, she was in the loo. I snuck a peek at my phone, hoping it wasn’t one of his dirtier texts.

Your Highness: I cleared a spot in the garage for your McLaren. Baxter helped.

“You’re blushing,” Beatrice said

I showed her the text, and she rolled her eyes.

“He wants to marry you.”

I did my best to ignore the thrill that shot through me at her assessment. “It’s not a ring. It’s a spot in the garage.”

“Which is practically a proposal for a guy like him.”

“It’s too soon.”

“You two already have a dog.”

“Who has a dog?” My mother asked as she returned to her seat.

“Every person in America.” I swiped the napkin from my lap and stood up. “I think I do need to use the facilities.”

“I just went,” Mom pouted.

“And I’m very proud of you.” I slipped my phone into my pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as I was in the bathroom, I locked myself inside a stall. Lately, every one of his texts had sent my heart racing. Not that he was serious about any of it. Beatrice might think he was ready to propose, but I doubted it.

Even though he had cleared out half of his closet.

And a drawer in the bathroom.

And now a space in his garage.

You didn’t have to do that.

It took him a minute to respond.

I wanted to. I want your car to feel at home.

It does.

It wasn’t like I could leave London, even if that’s what he wanted.

Could I?

Good, because I love your car.