Page 182 of Hate You More

“I high-key love it.”

“You’ve been hanging out with Chelsea too much.”

A Ferrari purrs at a set of traffic lights, the soft strains of a classical guitar floating from a nearby bar. The pavements are filled with tan women in silky dresses and men in pale-colored linen as conversations in Spanish, French, Italian float in the air around us.

“So when are you going to wear that bikini I bought?” Troy pulls me tighter to his side.

“I am not wearing dental floss and two Band-Aids in front of your mom.”

“I’d settle for the bedroom. Wear the red lipstick and stripper shoes with the red sole.”

“The Louboutins? I’m pretty sure you have a shoe fetish.” A fetish for me wearing heels, that is. And while I might sound like I’m grumbling, I am in fact, all of a quiver. Again. He just does it for me. For my heart and my head and my body and my soul.

Troy Templeton makes me feel whole. And somewhere between all that pretending and then breaking, I learned that loving him was never the risk. Walking away from him was. We’re not perfect and sometimes we tread on old hurts, but we won’t ever make the same mistakes again. Not because we’ve changed or because we’re different people, but because neither of us is willing to pay the price twice.

“You’re just easier to fuck on your feet when you’re six inches taller, Tater.”

“Rude!” I harrumph and dig an elbow into his ribs.

“I’m getting old—I’ve got an ailing back. And I just love the visual.”

“Pervert.”

“Only for you, my love.”

“I’ll wear the bikini when you grab a spanner and slap on the plumber’s ’stache.”

“Fine. But you’ve got to wear one, too, you little freak.”

“Hey!” I turn to face him in the busy street and tighten my fist in his shirt. God, I want to kiss him. “You’re not allowed to yuck my yum!”

“Am I allowed to lick your yum?” he asks, making a passing tourist squeak.

“You’ll get us arrested,” I say, but I’m laughing.

“Knowing you, it’d be a setup.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protest, despite intuiting what he’s about to say.

“I’m not going gay for pay, Clara, no matter how much you love gay porn.”

“I never said I love it.”

“Yet I keep finding the suggestion in the jar.”

“I can’t think how,” I reply, all innocence. “Anyway, I wore pointy ears for you when screwing a woodland fairy came out of the jar.”

“I didn’t say Puck, I said f—”

On my tiptoes, I slap my hand over his mouth. His fingers loop my wrist as he lifts it away.

“Just don’t waste your money hiring a couple of fake cops to frisk me.”

“You’re no fun.” I give a heavy-sounding sigh when he tugs me closer and kisses me thoroughly, right there on the street. I give a soft sigh as he pulls away. “Okay, you’re a little fun.”

“That’s what I thought,” he says, his eyes shining like twin golden flames.

“I love you.” The sentiment just bursts out of me. I mean, it often does.