“Ask me nicely,” I retorted, mocking him from the time he’d said it to me. 
His gaze came up from his phone, amused, dark. “If you don’t get your ass inside, Elena, you’ll be the one screaming please.” 
My God . . . 
“That was inappropriate,” I breathed while heading to the doors. 
“Perfectly platonic,” he parried. 
It was then I realized I’d really screwed myself over with that word.

 

We stopped in front of the Gran Torinos, and mischief flamed to life in my chest. 
I strayed to the next car over, examining it like I knew what I was examining. And knowing he owned a ‘72, I announced, “I think I like the ‘70 the best.” 
He didn’t look at me, but a sly smile tugged at his lips. “Come a little closer and say that.” 
Butterflies took flight in my stomach, and I had to bite my cheek to hold in a smile. 
It was eleven a.m. on a Sunday when I realized I wasn’t only attracted to my fiancé. I was, with a madness that ached, completely and utterly infatuated with him.