Risky and Wild(5)

I've known this guy a week. A week. One week.

I really am crazy. For all I know, he could take a knife from that block on the counter and slit my throat. Royal could be insane. He could be a monster. He could be so many things I don't know about.

“I let your friend drive me to work today, didn't I?” I tell him, thinking about the guy on the bike that tailed me from Royal's house to my own to change, and then over to the office. He left as I pulled into the parking lot next to his president. “And I'll let you drive me home tonight.”

Royal gives me a look as he grabs a food processor from below the counter and starts adding basil, garlic, Parmesan, olive oil and nuts into it. Pesto. He's making fresh pesto. I watch his tattooed fingers work, my heart thudding against my rib cage as I try to stay focused on the conversation. He's so … interesting. And I'm not. This is never going to work. I realize I'm working terribly hard on this self-sabotage bullshit, some self-fulfilling prophecy crap, but I can't make my mind stop.

“I hate to tell you this, Pint-Size, but for now, this is your home.”

“Whoa there,” I say, pausing as he flicks on the food processor and blends the ingredients into a green paste. When he stops, I continue. “I can't … I'm not moving in here. I know all the things we said and felt and did yesterday …” I have to stop again because Royal's staring at me with those earthy brown eyes of his, these two soulful pits that I want to dive into so I can fall forever down them. “They were great, and I definitely feel some sort of connection with you, but you do realize that we actually met each other one week ago.”

“So?” Royal asks, raising his dark brows at me and slipping out of his cut. His arm and shoulder muscles ripple and I get caught staring at the rose tattoo on the side of his neck like I'm mesmerized. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“A week isn't long enough,” I tell him as I move around the island to stand firmly in the kitchen. It's so goddamn cute, I can't stand it. There's this classy masculine flair to everything, a bachelor-elevated sort of a look that I haven't seen before. I didn't even know men were capable of this sort of thing. The cabinets are stained a dark espresso, the pulls silver and the counters a dark blue quartz. The backsplash is made up of stainless steel tiles, and the original window casing has been sanded and stained to match the rest of the woodwork.

“Not long enough for what?” he asks, like I'm the crazy person here, the one skirting around the subject of murder and criminal activity like it's nothing. “You going radge over there, Pint-Size?”

“First off, I have no idea what radge means although I can take it from context. And no, I'm not because a week isn't long enough to move in together, Royal.” He gives me a look, pausing our conversation just long enough to add noodles to the boiling water. When Royal turns and starts moving towards me, I take a step back.

“See, you need to stop doing that,” he tells me as his fingers curl around my upper arms and give me the chills. I stare up at him, but I can't move. As usual, I'm frozen in place by that look, the smug smirk on those lips, the way he takes me in like I'm wearing that red dress from the first night we met and not some ugly ass suit. “Stepping back. Stop stepping away from me, Pint-Size. I already went out on a limb for you. And,” he leans down to breathe hot breath against my cheek, “you promised to be mine.”

“Temporary insanity,” I plead as Royal captures my face in both hands, bites my bottom lip and tugs on it until I moan. “Stop it,” I say when he releases me and moves back to the stove like he's already made his point, like stomping around in leather boots and dark denim that cups his ass like a second skin is going to sway me somehow. “I'm not moving in here.”

“That wasn't a request,” Royal says as he stirs the noodles and glances back over at me, smirking all the while. I can see that his expression isn't fully there, like it's a mask he's wearing over his real emotions. I stare back at it and try to remind myself that men died this weekend by his hand, that Brent Gilman is dead, that my brother got beat up by Royal's club. Oh, and he basically just told me what to do.

“You can't make me stay here,” I tell him and he raises an eyebrow at me. “Not really. I don't even have any clothes for work tomorrow.” I cross my arms back over my chest and lean into the cabinets, letting the smells of the kitchen envelop me. Pasta is my weakness. I don't remember telling him that; it must be a coincidence.

“We'll pack some up tomorrow,” he tells me as he sets a strainer in the sink and dumps the noodles into it. “You can grab whatever crap you want and toss it in my busted arse truck.”