No, using the code and letting herself in unannounced sounds more like Molly.

  I chuckle, picking up the menu and scanning it. Everything sounds good, and I settle on breakfast for lunch. Eggs benedict on avocado toast.

  Nom.

  Tripp orders a cheeseburger and fries with extra lettuce, extra tomato, and extra pickles with a side of Cajun mayo.

  “Why did she break in? She must have had a reason.” A cute little basket of small cornbread muffins appears and I unfold the napkin in the basket to steal one away. Hot from the oven! Mmm.

  I pop it in my mouth as Tripp explains.

  “Her parents were arguing and she didn’t want to stick around for the fighting and the make-up sex.”

  I consider this information. “Everyone’s parents argue from time to time. I’m guessing it was just an excuse for her to hang out at your place. You should probably give her some boundaries before it gets out of hand.”

  I get it that Molly is young, but she can’t just show up willy-nilly, especially at the house of a man who lives alone. Jeepers. No.

  “Good idea. Maybe you can help me think of some.”

  I warm to the suggestion, the insinuation that he wants me around.

  “Sure, I can do that.”

  We eat the muffins in silence. Then,

  “My parents will be coming down this weekend for the game on Saturday.”

  I glance up, butter knife in hand. “Oh?”

  Tripp shifts uncomfortably in his chair, squeezing the brim of his blue baseball cap, shaping it. Tips his head from side to side, cracking his neck.

  “Yeah. Um…” He fidgets, tearing at the corner of his napkin to keep his hands busy. “Want to come?”

  Do I want to come? “To the game? With your parents?” I emphasize that last word, choking on the cornbread in my throat, reaching for the water glass and chugging half of it down.

  That feels huge. He wants me at the game and sitting with his parents? His parents.

  Like, his mother and father, the ones who gave birth to him.

  Calm down, you’ve met them both.

  “Yeah. I think I can manage a family box if you want?”

  If I want… What does that mean? I get to decide where we all sit? Me, the girl he’s taken out twice and had sex with on the first date?

  “Whatever works. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  He shakes his head. “Not an inconvenience, I just have to let my manager know so he can let will call know.” Tripp pauses. “Come to think of it, my mom’s going to want to talk your ear off, so maybe regular seats won’t work. Then Dad can eat without getting pissed he has to pay eight bucks for a beer.”

  I can tell he’s not done talking, so I wait him out, pretending to be focused on everything except his awkward fumbling.

  “I…” Tripp clears his throat. “Want you there. I mean—I would like it if you came.”

  Whoa.

  That admission had to have been hard for him; he’s revealed so little about himself, his past relationships, and what he wants for his future.

  “I’d like it, too.” I watch as he eats another muffin, then another, reaching for the basket and sticking my finger into the linen cloth. It’s empty. “Hey, you ate all the muffins.”

  “I told you I was hungry.”

  The mood is ruined when I glare at him, breaking the spell. “Why do you eat like a human garbage disposal? Do you even taste the food going down?”

  “Honestly? Not really.”

  “Then save some for me!”

  He looks abashed, shoulders sagging a little. “You’re right—I should be more sensitive and should have asked if you wanted another one before I plowed them down.”

  The admission gives me pause, stopping my outrage in its tracks.

  “Huh?”

  “I mean…that’s what Molly said.”

  “Molly told you to be more sensitive?” I want to laugh, but he’s dead serious.

  “The words were that I had to be nicer, but like—same thing? Sharing is caring and clearly that’s something I need to work on. Sorry.” He leans forward and plants a kiss on my gaping mouth.

  I’m so confused.

  “Is Molly your relationship coach?”

  “It does appear that way.”

  We both laugh. The idea of a fifteen-year-old schooling him on how to behave with a grown woman is both absurd and also entirely appropriate.

  “What else did she tell you?” Curious minds want to know.

  Tripp hesitates before giving his head a little shake. “That’s confidential.”

  Food comes and goes and we pass on dessert, taking coffee to go for an afternoon pick-me-up.

  “You know what a good afternoon pick-me-up is?” he asks, opening the passenger side to his truck and giving me a hand as he boosts me up.

  “What?”

  “Sex in the back of a truck.”

  The door slams shut and I blink out the front window. Is he serious? Does he seriously want to have sex in the back seat of his truck? I glance behind me—dark tinted windows. Plenty of space on the bench seat.

  How convenient.

  Unfortunately, we’re parked on a busy street, tourists passing by and a meter that needs to be fed.

  I point this out.

  “So? We’ll go up to Ohio Street where it’s dead.” His arm rests on the back of my seat, and when he shoots me a little wink, I’m a goner.

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Find a spot, pull over, and fuck me on the side of the road.”

  Tripp’s eyes are as wide as flying saucers. “Don’t fuck with me right now—my dick just went from semi wood to rock hard.”

  “I’m not fucking with you,” I announce boldly with a lift of my chin, causing his irises to dilate and his nostrils to flare.

  “Goddamn, it sounds so hot when you swear.”

  There he goes again, calling me hot.

  Making me shiver and tingle.

  Tripp excites me; he’s the opposite of boring, and I think…he gets me.

  I don’t bore him at all the way I’ve bored other men in the past, so maybe this was meant to be in a weird, messed-up way. Warm and fuzzy he is not. Blunt and straightforward? There has never been a man more so.

  I love not having to guess what’s on his mind and I’m determined to be the same way.

  We’re quiet all the way to a more residential area, anticipation making Tripp’s knuckles grip the wheel tighter, his jaw clenching. I watch his profile, fascinated by the way I can almost see his heart beating out of his chest. He’s excited.

  Nervous, too?

  Hard to say.

  I resist the urge to wring my hands, shifting in my seat, the seatbelt becoming a straitjacket, keeping me from what I really want to be doing: climbing into the back to get busy.

  This is so unlike me, but it feels like me.

  Gosh, this whole year has been a year of firsts: first real job, first time living alone, first time flipping a person in public and not at the karate studio, first time having sex in a vehicle.

  “Oo, there’s a spot!” We’re on an offshoot of a road off a road, where brownstone houses line the street and a church sits on the other side. Lots of trees. Plenty of shade.

  He’s skeptical. “Uh—in front of the church?”

  Good point. “Okay, keep driving.”

  He drives slowly up the narrow road, lined with cars and parking meters, searching for a spot. We happen upon a park—but not the kind where children play. It’s more of a grassy knoll, surrounded by a fence and trees and benches, and it’s completely devoid of people. No dogs, no kids, no one sitting on a bench to read. Across the street are row houses, mixed with older apartment buildings—not the kind with doormen.

  The street is all but deserted.

  And. He easily finds a place to park.

  I want to puke, stomach going absolutely wild, one butterfly turning to two, then four, then—

  “We can just head back to your office if you change your mind.” He’s giving me an out I have no intention of taking, despite my nervous belly.

  “The train is already in motion,” I tease, unbuckling my seatbelt and turning to face him. “Unless you’re scared?”

  Did those words come out of my mouth? Since when do I challenge huge, hulking guys to bang me in public spots and accuse them of being scared if they don’t?

  Rude, Chandler.

  Back it up.

  “I’m sorry, that’s not what I—”

  The truck gets slammed into park, his seatbelt flying from his shoulder, metal buckle hitting the driver’s side door he shoves open in an instant.

  “Back seat.”

  Roger that.

  I follow in hot pursuit but climb over the center console instead of exiting and coming in through the extended cab door, shoes on the floor in front of me, discarded so I don’t soil the seats.

  This is so exciting!

  I didn’t start dating until I was in college, so I was older by the time I’d lost my virginity; none of those experiences, though new, were as exhilarating as what’s happening with Tripp right now.

  The best part is? I have a feeling this is new to him, too.

  His body is monolithic, taking up most of the back seat, his thick thighs spread, offering me little choice but to climb onto his lap. Straddle him. Our mouths fuse, naturally—no hesitation, already seeking their rhythm.

  Confident that no one can see us—not with the overcast sky, mature shade trees lining the sidewalk, and the truck’s dark-tinted windows—my fingers roam the buttons of my shirt, plucking each one free, one at a time.

  My head hits the ceiling. “Ouch!”

  Tripp chuckles before his mouth latches onto the skin of my collarbone and he groans, hands caging my waist. “Fuck you smell good.”

  Thank heavens for that—I didn’t wear deodorant this morning.

  Or like, any morning? Ha ha.

  He doesn’t seem to give a shit; I could probably be covered in crap and the man’s hands would still be all over my body—roaming my upper torso, eyes heavy-lidded from lust.

  “So fucking pretty,” he mutters while his fingers find the clasp of my bra, the lacy one I threw on last minute that didn’t seem practical but which I’m grateful for.

  Vanity has its rewards.

  He appreciates my efforts with the palms of his hands, then lips, tongue and teeth nipping at my nipples. I could stay like this forever, letting him lavish my body with kisses…

  My hips slowly begin doing the only thing they can do in a situation like this: they grind. Round and round on the hard erection straining at the front of his jeans.

  God that must be uncomfortable. No room for it to roam.

  I sit back, still kneeling over him, creating a gap between our bodies so my fingers can work the fly of his pants. Zipper. Ease it down, moving off him momentarily so he can maneuver them down his hips and free that glorious dick.

  I hike my skirt up. Pull my thong aside, then climb back on.

  Bury my face in the crook of his neck as I inch down over him, easing on little by little by little, breathing heavy the whole way.

  It’s a strange effect, our position inconvenient and scrunched, the cab of the truck now sweltering from our body heat, windows fogging up. The space is cramped. Awkward.

  So good.

  I move up and down over him, doing all the work while his hands brace my hips, helping them travel.

  I am determined to come.

  I want him to come, too—desperately.

  It’s work. It’s tiring. It’s hot and sweaty and our movements are limited but we do it, my lips pressed to the side of his damp neck while I rotate my pelvis to the point of no return.

  Tripp slaps my ass and it feels like a five-star review as his body jerks.

  What are the odds that we come at the same time, twice?

  Panting, I flop onto him, resting against this chest.

  “Do you happen to, um, have a rag or something?” Not to be gross and disgusting, but I can already feel, uh, everything dripping out my, um…you know…and I could die.

  How am I supposed to clean this up?

  “Shit, we didn’t wear a condom.” He pauses. “You can use my shirt.”

  “I am not using your shirt!” As much as I want to clean up this mess, I’m not doing it with his clothes. Or mine. “Paper towels?”

  Tripp shakes his head. No paper towels. No wet wipes. No tissues.

  Not a single Starbucks or McDonald’s napkin in the glovebox like most normal humans have.

  I glance around the cab, desperate for something to wipe this mess up with.

  Okay fine—I would settle for a gym sock. “Gym sock?”

  Tripp perks up. “Yeah, I do have a gym sock. It’s in the duffle on the floor.” He bends forward to unzip it, rooting around and recovering a white sports sock. Shoves it toward me.

  “Thanks.”

  I cannot let him watch me stuff this sock in my thong as a panty liner!

  A knock interrupts, scaring the shit out of me and causing me to scream, then cover my breasts by crossing my arms.

  There’s a police officer at the door, and I let out a horrified gasp as he stands with his back to the truck, rapping on the window with his knuckle over his shoulder, no longer peering inside.

  Oh my god oh my god OHMYGOD.

  Oh my god.

  No.

  This is not happening.

  Jesus take the wheel and get me the hell out of here.

  I fumble for something to cover my face with—his hoodie perhaps? Crawl under the seat maybe?

  I want a sinkhole to swallow me now, cowering in the back seat as Tripp tries yanking up.

  “Sir,” the officer outside is saying, “I’m going to need you both to step outside.”

  Both of us?!

  I shield my face with a hand as I die inside, Tripp beginning a long string of curses I don’t dare repeat, clearing his throat and reaching for his ball cap. He lowers the brim to cover his forehead. Unfortunately, there is no disguising this man—plus, there’s no doubt the cop has run the plates and already knew exactly who he was before approaching the vehicle.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Tripp cracks the back door open. “Is that really necessary?”

  “Sir.” The cop shifts on his heels. “It’s the middle of the day and you’re engaging in a sexual act in a residential area. I’m going to need you both to step outside.” He continues to be matter-of-fact and blunt, straight-faced and serious, hat shielding his eyes and his agitated expression.

  He’s just doing his job, and here Tripp is, arguing with him.

  “You don’t recognize me?” Tripp has the balls to ask the cop through the gap in the door, the cop who’s watching every move we’re making so we don’t do something shady. “I play for the Blues.”

  Oh my god!

  “Good for you.” The cop’s expression is blank. “I ran your plates and they’re clean, but I’m going to need some form of identification from yourself and your companion.”

  Your companion.

  As if I’m a…a…

  Paid escort.

  “If you ran my plates and know who I am, why do you need to see my identification?”

  This police officer isn’t playing around, leveling Tripp with a blank stare, raising his brows and clenching his jaw.

  “I need to see valid identification with your face on it, sir.”

  I smack my date on the arm, muttering, “Stop arguing, jeez.”

  “Okay, but why does he need us outside? We were just fucking, Jesus.”

  Fumbling with my top, I glance at the back window then out the front, scanning the street for photographers, dreading the moment I have to step outside onto the sidewalk.

  “Um, officer?” I spy my purse in the front seat, the one with my wallet and ID in it. “My bag is on the floor—can I grab it?”

  Yes.

  When we’re both curbside, we’re separated, Tripp in front of the vehicle, me in the back, the officer making his way over to speak to me.

  “Ms. Westbrooke, how do you know this person?”

  “Um…we’re dating.” I think? I mean, are we actually dating dating, or do I tell the cop we’ve only been on a few dates and so far it’s nothing serious? Shoot.

  “How long have you known Mr. Wallace?”

  “A few weeks? Since my cousin’s wedding—she married his brother, Buzz Wallace. Um, Trace is his actual name, Buzz is his nickname,” I babble nervously, stopping before I blurt out that I currently have a sports sock stuffed between my legs to prevent cum from dripping down the inside of my thighs.

  “And where were you prior to arriving at this location?”

  “We were having lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park.”

  A nod. “Just so we’re very clear—this was consensual?”

  Ah, now I get it. He’s asking to make sure I wasn’t banged against my will.

  “Yes.”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to say it in your own words.”

  Lord, if my cheeks were any hotter I would swear it was the middle of a summer heatwave.

  “Yes sir, it was consensual.” How on earth I manage that sentence with a straight face is entirely beyond me, my gaze still scanning the perimeter. “Sorry if I seem distracted—he plays football and if a paparazzi gets our picture and splashes it across the internet, I will literally die a thousand deaths.”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” the cop asks, hands on his hips, countenance remaining stalwart. “This is considered a misdemeanor and I could issue a ticket to both of you. However, considering you seem like a nice couple, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”

  My body sags with relief; pretty sure tickets are considered public records, making it damn easy for any meddling media to dig and make that information public. A public relations and personal nightmare for both of us.

  “You cannot be engaging in this behavior in a residential area,” the officer continues, pointing down the block. “There’s a school a few blocks away—if your boyfriend is famous, he should know better than this.”

  I nod, embarrassed, wondering if this is the exact spiel he’s about to give Tripp, down to the guilt trip about the school on the next block. How the heck were we supposed to know?!