“Did you have to block all those people?” I asked as I fastened my seatbelt.

“No.” He met my gaze, unblinking, as he climbed behind the wheel. “Just didn’t care enough not to.”

I stared out the window with pursed lips and thunder in my eyes as the car rolled into Boston’s unforgiving Friday-night traffic, trying to let the chilly leather seat cool my temper. The radio station played “Heavy Is The Head” by the Zac Brown Band and Chris Cornell. Pretty ironic, I thought bitterly.

“You can wipe that satisfied grin off your face,” I said after a steadying breath. I could see his amusement from my peripheral vision. “Rudeness doesn’t impress me. I’ve never seen the appeal of the whole angry-asshole façade, and I’d definitely never fall for someone like you.”

"Troy Brennan. Nice to meet you. There’s always a first time for everything.”

“Maybe this…” I waved my finger between us. “Will be the first time you realize that not all women are the gold-digging, cookie-cutter, cardboard stereotype you’ve been dating so far.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t burn all your bridges to my good graces.” His smirk somehow broke into an even wider smile. “You have something you want from me tonight, Red.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He flashed me a quick glance before training his amused gaze back on the road. “Because you agreed to have dinner with me.”

I blew some air out of my lungs, rubbing my bare arms. He noticed and turned on the heater. Sadly, it was the nicest thing he’d ever done for me.

“Okay, you’re right. I have a suggestion I need to run by you.” My voice was thick.

“Later,” Brennan said, and I decided not to push for now.

As the silence stretched. I adjusted my dress, pried at the high heels that felt too tight.

“How’s your foot tonight?” he suddenly asked.

“Better,” I answered automatically, then bit my inner cheek once I realized what I’d done. Shit.

I was collecting shit-moments by the second this evening.

His lips pressed together in a thin line. “I’m a lot of bad things, but an idiot is not one of them. I figured you cut yourself on our wedding night to avoid consummating our marriage. You wearing my socks, and the blood I found on my razor was a big fucking clue. I’m not a rapist, Sparrow.”

Feeling my cheeks heat, I rubbed my forehead. “With all due respect, Brennan, with your track record, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry.”

“My track record?” He hissed out a breath. “Please educate me on what the fuck you’re talking about? And quit calling me Brennan. I’m your husband, not your boss.”

I needed to backpedal my last remark. What was I supposed to answer? Everyone knows you killed Billy Crupti? People say you break bones for a living? You make my knees weak with fear?

“My point is,” I said, “intimidating a woman with sex is disgusting. I didn’t want you to touch me.” I folded my arms over my chest, trying to catch my breath again.

That was my constant physical state around this man. I could run for hours on end and sing simultaneously without missing a note, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, talk to him for a few seconds without feeling like I needed an inhaler.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Red. But if I recall, on our wedding night you creamed my boxers like they were a fucking birthday cake.”

This man was so disgusting sometimes the need to hurt him overwhelmed me.

“Thanks for the poetic analogy. And still, I don’t want to have sex with you.”

“Yes, you do.” His lips curved seductively, his eyes still narrowed on the car in front of us. “Your eyes wander to my morning wood. You grind yourself against me when given the opportunity. Your nipples were so hard when I sucked on your blood, they almost cut through your shirt.” His right hand traveled from the gearbox, hovering over my thigh, but never touching. “And you kissed me last night and moaned my name. You.”

Damn, it was hot. I could feel the warmth of his skin, even through the dress’s fabric.

“You’re ripe, Red. And you want to have sex. It’s just a shame you want to have it with a man you hate.”

I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

He shrugged, holding the steering wheel in one hand and drumming on the gearbox with the other, moving away from my thigh. “Love and hate are similar in a lot of ways.”

“Is there a way to love you away from me?” I snapped.

“No, but you could hate-fuck me all you want.”

I flushed lobster red, a jolt of warmth finding its way to my groin. Troy Brennan was perfectly content with talking dirty, whereas I was embarrassed at simply thinking about sex. Yet again, he had the upper hand.