Page 9 of Sweetest Sin

Her brows furrow in confusion because she doesn’t know who I am or the world I’m a part of, and I like that. I like her innocence, and I’ll be damned if anyone ruins it—including that piece-of-shit pilot.

“Nobody’s ever given me a nickname before,” she murmurs, her cheeks deepening in color.

“I can assure you, it’s a compliment,” I tell her, taking a small step toward her.

This close, I can smell her sweet floral scent, only adding to her allure.

“Are you hungry?” I ask to change the subject.

“I could eat,” she admits. “I know a good restaurant not too far from our gate,” she says, looking up at me through her lashes. “And I’m almost positive they carry Kingston.” She smiles softly. “My treat,” she adds with a shrug. “I owe you for coming to my rescue back there.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” I tell her, palming her cheek. “And what kind of man would I be if I didn’t buy our meal?”

“One that’s not sexist,” she volleys.

“It’s not about being sexist. I was raised by a man who treats women like inanimate objects. That’ll never be me, but I’m also not going to let a beautiful woman pay for her meal when I’m capable of doing so.”

She nods in understanding.

“And, Peaches …” I lock eyes with her. “I meant what I said. If that asshole comes anywhere near you, I’ll make sure he’s never able to fly again.”

“Mmm,this place seriously makes the best burgers,” Peyton moans after swallowing the last of her food and wiping her mouth. “How’s yours?”

I had already eaten during my business meeting, so I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t about to tell her that though, so I ordered the same thing as her and then regretted it when I saw how massive the burger was.

“It’s good, and so is the drink.” I hold up the old-fashioned, made with Kingston Limited’s Black Label. “Are you from around here?” I ask conversationally.

The entire meal, we’ve talked about her job and how she fell into it after she dropped out of college, just before her senioryear, to move back home to take care of her mom, who had fallen sick, but she’s yet to give me anything more.

“I am,” she says vaguely, leaving it at that.

I’ve noticed that while she talks about herself, she keeps the details to a minimum. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a stranger or what, but it’s almost like she doesn’t want me to know anything significant about her.

“What about you? Are you from Harbor Point or Coral Bay?”

“Harbor Point. I flew to Coral Bay for a business meeting.”

She takes another bite of her burger, and I laugh at the moan she makes.

“Are burgers your favorite food?” I ask, wanting to know more about her.

“One of them. But I love anything breakfast-related the most.” Her eyes light up. “When I was growing up, after my parents divorced, Mom would do breakfast for dinner sometimes. It was a cheap way to feed us when money was tight. She felt bad, but I loved it. Pancakes, sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy, and toast with jam. It became my go-to meal.” She shrugs. “When I have a family of my own, I’m serving breakfast for dinner, even if we’re not broke.”

I chuckle, trying to imagine eating breakfast for dinner. When I was growing up, we had a housekeeper who cooked for us—and still does—and I’m pretty sure she’d have smacked me upside the head if I’d requested breakfast for dinner.

Her phone starts to beep, and she glances down at it, turning it off.

“Time for work,” she says with a smile.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a couple of bills, but I’m already shaking my head.

“You’re really not going to let me at least pay for my own meal?” she asks.

“No.” I chuckle and then lean in so our faces are close. “Since I’m paying, I can call this our first date, and it’ll be harder for you to argue when I ask you for your number to arrange a second date.”

It takes her a second to wrap her head around my words, but once she does, she throws her head back with a laugh. “That was good,” she says. “But it’s not happening.”

“Me paying?” I ask, even though I already know what she meant.