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I make a face. “The two most common Italian dishes you could find.”

“Lasagna.”

“Make that the three most common.”

She rolls her eyes. “I guess I’m trying to tell you I don’t go out for Italian food much.”

“Do you go out for food at all?”

“Not very often.” She shrugs. “I was stuck at Lancaster Prep for most of my high school life.”

“You didn’t ever go into the town nearby and eat?”

“Not really.” She drops her gaze. “I didn’t have a ton of friends there. Only a few close ones. I wasn’t popular.”

I feel guilty as hell because I’m the root cause of her high school trauma. Once I went through my old yearbooks and saw her freshman year photo, it was a painful reminder of her appearance back then, and the memories came back. Though I did give a lot of people shit back then.

I was such a motherfucker. God, I can barely tolerate the memories and hate myself for being so awful toward her.

Taunting a bunch of nerdy girls back in my high school days was like a hobby for me. I was a giant prick who flat-out didn’t give a damn about another person’s feelings. For the most part, I would say that describes me at this very moment as well.

Which means I can’t stand the fact that I treated Sinclair so poorly. That I made her despise me like I did. I can’t believe she still doesn’t hate me because she should. I was a dick. I deserve her hatred.

Instead, she’s sitting across from me, watching me with those shiny golden-brown eyes, the faintest smile curving her lush lips. She’s got on a navy sweater and a pair of jeans that fit her perfectly, showcasing her round ass that I would like to get my hands on later. Preferably in bed.

Preferably naked.

We order when the server returns, Sinclair choosing a grilled chicken dish with a side of pasta while I choose the Marsala. I also order a bottle of red wine, much to Sin’s dismay, but I only pour a small amount in her glass, which she sips on as we eat our salads and she consumes endless slices of table bread. The lighting in the restaurant is dim and there’s piano music softly tinkling in the background and fuck if she isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I want to take her back to the apartment and fuck her on the bed. The sofa. The kitchen counter. The shower. Wherever she’ll let me, I want to take her. Make her mine. For real.

Halfway through eating our entrees, she receives a phone call, one that has her grimacing when she sees the name flashing on her screen. The insane jealousy I feel over anyone else she may have in her life rears its ugly head and I take a moment to get it under control before I speak.

“Who is it?” My voice is even while my insides are in chaos. I hate thinking of her talking to anyone else, which is stupid. She talks to other people because she’s a normal human and not a hermit. I can’t just whisk her away and keep her from her friends and family. She’d hate me for it. Or maybe she wouldn’t mind as long as I kept her naked and in bed while giving her endless orgasms. That sounds like a dream.

“My mother.” A sigh leaves her and she stares at her phone until the call ends and it goes to voice mail. “I don’t want to talk to her.”

Relief fills me. If it had been Tim, I might’ve thrown her phone across the restaurant. “Why not?”

“Well, first of all, it’s because I’m with you.” Her smile is small, coy and she won’t quite look me in the eye, which I’m thinking is on purpose. It’s obvious that her mother calling disturbs her. “And second…I just don’t want to.”

“You don’t get along.” I don’t ask it as a question. Sin has problems with her family and it makes me grateful that I like my parents and tolerate my siblings. If anyone has a problem in our immediate family, it’s me. Everyone else is relatively normal—save for my father who is a raging lunatic but knows how to control himself and play nice with others.

I inherited his traits and am learning how to play nice, but fuck it’s difficult sometimes.

“She’s only calling to see what I’m doing on a Friday night. I’ve never seen a mother so worried about her daughter’s social life before.” Her expression turns sour. “If I were to tell her I’m out with you, she’d flip out.”

“Because I’m a Lancaster?”

Sin nods.

“Then tell her.”

She lifts her head, blinking at me, her shock at my encouragement apparent. “If I tell her I’m—datingyou, she won’t leave me alone until she gets to meet you.”

“Then let’s meet Mom and Dad. Mr. and Mrs. Jock Rot.” I grin, fuckinggrinat her, and she grins back.

“I hate how you always bring up the Jock Rot thing.”

“You should’ve never told me.” That’s why I bring it up. I want to get under her skin. What would she say if I told her she’s burrowed herself so deeply under my skin I’m afraid I’ll never be able to let her go?