The Wrong Picking Number

CHAPTER 20

MONROE

Lincoln was back to his normal self when I joined him in the kitchen, as though the weight of his words on the balcony had never happened.

I didn't press him on it. I knew better than most that gashes in the heart needed to be treated with care.

And I had no desire to reveal any of my own secrets–at least the ones he couldn't possibly know about.

Lincoln heaped a mountain of food onto a plate and slid it over to me.

"I love you," I breathed, my eyes locked onto the delicious feast in front of me...before realizing exactly what I'd just said.

I gaped at him in horror, and I shook my head frantically, trying to take my words back. But Lincoln's cocky grin only grew wider.

"I love the food, I meant! The food!"

"Knew you'd say it first, dream girl," he teased.

I groaned, wishing the ground would swallow me whole, but a second later, I was digging in...because, well, food. Duh.

He slipped onto the barstool beside where I was standing and patted his lap. "Come here," he murmured.

My face turned red as I brushed my hair out of my eyes, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I can get my own seat," I protested.

He smiled slyly. "I'm aware. But I'd much rather be your seat."

I hesitated for a moment, but then his golden gaze drew me in, again, and before I knew it, I found myself sliding onto his lap.

"Oh," I murmured, realizing he was...hard.

This was going to be an interesting dinner.

"Just ignore it," he said casually. "It's been an ongoing problem since meeting you."

I stuffed a bite of orange chicken into my mouth before I could say something else awkward.

* * *

Dinner had indeed been interesting. He'd insisted on feeding me for half the meal, and I didn't know what it said about me, but I'd fucking loved it. I bloomed under his attention, my pathetic self soaking up everything he offered like a flower under the sun.

Now I was curled up on the comfiest couch I'd ever been on, in the fanciest room I'd ever seen, surrounded by books and notes, trying to work on my paper. But, I could feel his hot gaze on me constantly, making me squirm. It didn't help that Lincoln had changed into gray sweatpants, and I was feeling very...thirsty at that moment. The fabric hung low on his hips, and every time he shifted, those delicious abs of his made an appearance. Those sweatpants should be illegal, because he was making my growing addiction even worse. And my thoughts were definitely not on my English paper.