Pop is so pissed after I text him explaining why I left that he can’t even spell his threats correctly. I send him a heart emoticon and ignore the rest of his angry messages.

I can’t believe I let Cap mock me into ordering a muffuletta. His opinion shouldn’t mean shit to me. I know who I am. I am who I want to be. Fucking-A.

Except I do want his approval. I want this giant handsome man to think I’m beautiful and smart and cool. If he thinks roast beef and French dip—either of them preferable to this weird sandwich before me—are lame, well, then I need to be edgy enough to try his fancy fucking sandwich.

“Do you always ride your Harley?” he asks before taking a massive bite out of his sandwich.

I’m slightly horrified by Cap’s lack of manners. Sure, my pop is a loud-mouthed, burping, farting, violent madman when around the club guys. With Mom, though, he tones down his gross manly inclinations. I always assumed men would at least fake good manners for women they want to impress.

So how come this lust-inducing leviathan isn’t eating more carefully in my presence? Where’s the effort to woo me?

“I normally drive my 1970 El Camino,” I say while nibbling at a chip since the sandwich grosses me out.

“Why?”

“It’s a nice fucking car, that’s why.”

“I thought your dad made decent money. I just figured he could afford a better car for his kid.”

“We fixed it up together, shit stain.”

“Are you into cars?”

“No. I’m into my pop,” I say, regretting my choice of words immediately. “You know what I mean.”

Chewing his sandwich, Cap nods and mumbles, “He’s a good-looking guy. You could do worse.”

“Turd muncher.”

“Your dad got you a dump of a car and had you help fix it up, huh? That’s a pretty sweet bonding experience. Normally though isn’t that a daddy-son thing? I guess you do have a little tomboy vibe going on.”

“I’m not a tomboy.”

“Sure.”

Picking at the sandwich, I shrug. “Pop bought the car for my brother. They were fixing it up until Colton decided he preferred chasing girls to playing mechanic with Pop. I knew that hurt Pop’s feelings, so I offered to help. It ended up being fun. Pop has a lot of great stories about when he was younger and how he met Mom.”

“And when you drive that El Camino, you think of your dad’s stories.”

“Yeah,” I say, liking how he doesn’t make fun of my affection for Pop. “The car feels like a piece of my family’s history. Besides, it’s pretty cool too. I get compliments from guys all the time.”

“They’re just saying shit to get you to notice them. It’s a con.”

“Is that how you get girls to notice you?”

“No, Audrey Johansson, if I want a girl to notice me, I just enter the room, and wham, bam, thank you, ma’am,” Cap says and gives me an arrogant wink.

“You’re so awful,” I say without much effort. “I bet women hate you around here. No doubt you use them and lose them, huh?”

“I’m picky about where I stick my dick.”

“Bullshit.”

Cap doesn’t act offended or hurry to prove his manliness. He just shrugs and finishes chewing before explaining, “I was homeschooled, and Mom provided me with a very detailed sex education. No way am I getting dick rot.”

I burst into laughter despite the serious expression on his roughly handsome face. Too bad my brother doesn’t worry half as much about his dick rotting off.

“Antibiotic-resistant STDs are a real problem,” he says when I continue laughing.

“Wouldn’t know. I’m a stone-cold virgin.”

Cap doesn’t react AT ALL to my confession. Men usually salivate upon hearing they could be the first to tap my sweet ass. Instead, he only takes another bite of his sandwich and watches me with the dark eyes of a man with the world in his behemoth hand.

“No comment about that?” I ask when he says nothing.

“If you’re not going to eat your sandwich, can I have it? I only ate one lunch today and no afternoon snack.”

I look at the muffuletta monstrosity with layer after layer of shit I don’t recognize on it. “What’s in this anyway?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked that before ordering?”

“I’m sorry if I assumed it wouldn’t look like dog shit. Clearly, I overestimated your taste level.”

“Calm your sweet tits. The muffuletta is a Sicilian sandwich with ciabatta bread, Genoa salami, capocollo, prosciutto, mortadella, mozzarella, and provolone. Oh, and olive salad.”

“What the hell does olive salad taste like?”

“You took a bite.”

“I nibbled the edges. I didn’t taste any salad.”

Cap’s size allows him to stand, lean over, and plant his lips on mine in one smooth motion. I only get a taste of his tongue before his ass returns to his seat.

“Or you could take a bite and find out,” he says.

I’m not savvy enough to respond coolly after a tempting titan kisses me. How many guys were lucky enough to know my lips? I could likely count them on one hand. I’m not a prude, but boys in Ellsberg are gross or related to me or seem kinda related to me. The only one I ever had a crush on was my much older, sorta cousin, River who never so much as noticed my awful flirting. The few boys I let kiss me were drunks at parties where I was drunker and only a more sober friend or sister prevented me from making a mistake of moving past kissing. The one guy that kissed me despite my saying no now swims with the fishes. Or maybe he’s taking a dirt nap. My pop never tells me what he does with the bodies.

Finally, I’ve been kissed by a worthy someone. Cap is a jerk, and I still have the urge to punch him. Despite all that, I really wish the kiss hadn’t ended so quickly. I barely knew it was beginning when his lips were already leaving. I’m floored by how amazing his lips felt, and I hope he’s as wowed as I am.

Except instead of trying to use the kiss as a pathway into my panties, the towering twit just wants to know about the fucking sandwich.