The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)
The Cruelest Kind of Hate: Chapter 32

CALISTA

“Gage, where are you taking me?” I ask, only able to see slivers of light through the hands currently over my eyes.

He’s been suspicious all day—giggling to himself, curt responses, darting eye syndrome. And now he tells me he has a surprise for me, which could mean one of two things. One: it’s the greatest surprise of all time that doesn’t pose a risk to my already-high blood pressure. Two: it’s the scary equivalent of going bungee jumping while we’re naked and stuck together. And knowing Gage, I wouldn’t be surprised if this ends up with us getting naked.

“You worry too much,” he says, leading me over unfamiliar terrain, hypercautious of navigating me past invisible obstacles. “You’ll love it, I promise.”

“I love very few things in this world,” I grumble, feeling blindly through the air with my hands like an idiot, all while Gage indulges in my ridiculousness with some not-so-discreet snickers.

He guides me through a door, and since it’s night, I can’t gauge where we are through the gaps in his fingers. A whirlpool of nerves starts in my belly, and my heart clunks rather haphazardly against the scaffolding of my ribs. I don’t like surprises. Never have. And although I trust Gage enough not to murder me in the woods, my body doesn’t have the capacity to chill the fuck out if it doesn’t know what the hell is going on. I feel like I’m walking blindly into artillery fire.

I’m about to open my mouth and bargain for the truth when my eyesight is restored, and I’m met with the dazzling image of a romantic dinner laid out on the floor of my dance studio. Flaming candles border the red, satin blanket draped over the wooden floorboards, and a rose centerpiece sits in between piles of overflowing dishes. There’s pasta, grilled chicken, salad, champagne, breadsticks, some kind of rich, chocolate dessert—pretty much an entire restaurant’s worth of delicious-looking food. My jaw falls open.

“You did this?” My expression fractures into one of shock, and the anxiety spidering throughout my bloodstream like some black miasma of death slowly burns out into a fuzzy warmth.

A shit-eating grin tips up the corners of Gage’s lips, the low light from the candles reflecting asterisms in his dark eyes. “Seeing as we’re officially boyfriend and girlfriend now, I thought it was time I treated you to that first date.”

I don’t know what to say, which is ironic considering I’m always equipped with a quick and witty response. I can’t even use my extended vocabulary to maim or insult. I have to—shudder—dig in my archives and replace something nice to say. Gage is a giver. He always has been. So to walk in on something as thoughtful as this…it’s hardly a surprise. The real surprise is him keeping this a secret for the entire day.

Still behind me, he wraps his arms around my midsection, resting his chin on my shoulder. He christens my bare skin with silky kisses, and I let myself fall into his touch. That pine scent of his must imbalance some chemical reaction in my brain to make me froth at the mouth for him—it’s all working together to test my self-restraint, gambling away my dignity with each deliberately placed pucker of his lips.

My breath cinches tighter than a drawstring, breaking off the moan stirring in my throat. “Gage, you didn’t have to do all of this.”

“For you? Of course I did,” he rumbles against my flesh, slowly directing us over to the center of the room while we’re still entangled in each other. And then he lifts his head up, turning to whisper against my neck, his voice steadier than the chugging of my heart.

“Italian food. I was going to cook for you, but uh, I sort of guessed that you’d want something edible.”

I quickly turn around to face him, so wrangled in an adrenaline-fueled undertow that I don’t bother with talking. I slam my lips onto his, linking my arms around his neck and pulling him into me. My tongue chases after his, colliding with an urgency that has the bottom half of me squeezing in anticipation, and we take turns hungrily devouring one another as if there isn’t food just feet away from us.

“I would’ve eaten whatever you made,” I gasp against his mouth, nearly crumbling to ash when he grips my waist tightly, curling his fingers into the curves of my sides.

He chuckles, and the glorious vibration tings through my bones, way too hot and husky to be legally safe. Especially at this dosage. That irresistible, lower-than-low tone of his conspires with the pulse between my legs like they’re two partners in crime.

“Didn’t want to take any chances and accidentally poison you. I wanted this date to be perfect.”

Perfect. I’d grown to accept that perfection doesn’t exist. And I would know, seeing as my life is far from perfect. But Gage…he’s…well, he might be the only person to be able to change my mind.

My cheeks sizzle with a blush probably as vibrant as the heavily seasoned cherry tomatoes scattered on white porcelain. “When did you even have the time to do this?”

We both take a seat on the ground, and Gage gets busy with popping the champagne, doing it as carefully as he can over the ice bucket so none of it splatters the floor. There’s a fizzy stream that glugs out of the opening, and he quickly grabs my flute to fill it with a bubbly, light pink mixture.

“Earlier today. When you took Teague to practice.”

“And how did you get in?” I question, my eyebrow going full arch mode.

He shrugs bashfully, handing me my glass and moving on to fill his own. “A little birdy might’ve helped me.”

Right. A little birdy whose name starts with A and ends in eris.

I can’t believe he took time out of his day to set this up for me. The “first date” he promised months ago in a desperate attempt to upstage Dilbert.

I take a swig from my drink, hoping that a little liquid courage will keep my confidence from fraying at the edges. I’m still like a schoolgirl with a hopeless crush, losing all sense of cool when Gage fucking Arlington sneaks loving stares my way, just as smitten with me as I am with him—but a lot more obvious about it.

My mind lags, so overfilled with emotion that I forget we’re even having a conversation. I’m too self-conscious of the way my heart’s bruising itself against my sternum, pounding so loud that it could blow out a silent stadium.

Gage uncharacteristically chews the bottom of his lip, the surrounding flesh reddening with irritation. “Do you like it? Oh, God. Did I overdo it? Is it too much?” He panics, probably seconds away from sweeping this whole spread up and asking me exactly what I want.

“Huh? No! Oh, no. Gage, it’s perfect,” I reassure him, reaching over to grab his hand. We’re not seated that far away from each other, but it feels like my skin’s crawling with fire ants whenever I’m not touching him. “I’m just…I can’t believe you went out of your way to do this.”

“I think you underestimate the things I’d do for you. I’d move mountains if you asked me to, Cali.”

Tears begin to ball behind my eyes—stupid tears!—and his words pack so much punch that they would’ve knocked me on my ass if I wasn’t sitting on it. If my head didn’t already get the memo, my body’s definitely made it its life goal to yell at me, Hey, stupid lady! You’re in love with this boy!

I mean, I am, aren’t I? And it’s not just because he treats me like a princess and spends his hard-earned money on impromptu dates. It’s because of who he is. It’s because Gage is always there for me, even when I don’t want him to be. It’s because Gage always puts me first, even when I put myself last. It’s because Gage believes in me and supports me, even when I don’t think I deserve it.

God, he’s just…this man means everything to me.

Love tugs at my guts, turns my tongue loose, and feeds gasoline to a fire that wants nothing more than to burn for all eternity in his presence, keeping him warm even on the coldest of days. “Thank you. This is the best date I could’ve possibly asked for.”

He smiles in relief, brushing his thumb over the back of my knuckles like he always does, and I never expected that this sweet, timid side of Gage would make me so insanely giddy. He’s singlehandedly drop-kicked my heart all the way to Timbuktu.

Gage got me a very cheesy lasagna, one with gooey cheese stringing down the sides, seeping into layers of perfectly cooked, soft noodle beds. They ooze with little globs of tomato sauce, ultimately topped off with a mouthwatering crust of burnt cheese, flecks of parsley, and a hearty powdering of parmesan. Two halves of garlic bread steam on the rim of my plate, glistening with a fine coat of butter.

I drop his hand to pick up my fork, cutting the hunk of lasagna into smaller squares, but Gage interrupts me. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Let me feed you.”

I almost burst out laughing. “Gage, that’s ridiculous.”

Though it seems I’ve suffered another foot-in-mouth incident because my response misses its mark by (apparently) a wide margin. Gage has this little valley right between his brows, and his mouth is weighed down with a particularly heavy-looking frown.

“You’re serious?” I choke out.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. I don’t want to poke the bear, but he can’t be mad at me for being a little confused. “Why⁠—”

“I don’t do romantic date nights, Cali. I don’t do romance. Period. I’m trying something here, with every belief that it’s bound to go sideways. Humor me, please. Let me romance the fuck out of you tonight,” he implores, meaning every word of it with the fiber of his being.

Normally I’d refuse him with some very clever wordplay, but goddammit, Cupid’s taken my eye out with his fucking arrow. Still reeling in disbelief, I surrender my fork to him.

But he doesn’t take it.

The carved lines of his face fall to candle-made shadows, and something unidentifiable lurks underneath the depths of his darkening green irises. “Want you on my lap, Spitfire. Then I can feed you.”

There’s really no room for argument. It’s a demand—a soft one—but still a demand.

I glance down at the thick thighs beckoning me, and my mouth salivates for an entirely different reason. Gage has officially made me a powerless excuse for a woman. I’m gonna fold like a poker player with a bad hand whenever it comes to him.

Having swallowed any chance at a comeback, I crawl over to him and plant myself in his lap, feeling more than secured with the width of his legs cushioning my ass. And it’s then that I wish I’d worn something cuter than my boring outfit of a plain shirt and jeans.

Gage doesn’t care at all, though. He still looks at me like I’m wearing the most gorgeous, one-of-a-kind, cost-a-whole-month’s-rent dress. I’m sitting on the meat of his thigh so I don’t sit directly on his, um, gearshift, and he loops one arm around my waist to hold me in place. He then picks up a sizable piece of lasagna on the tines of my fork, eases it between my lips, and watches with hooded eyes at the way my mouth closes around it.

I don’t know what I love more—the food or the lust smoldering in his eyes. Jesus. No wonder this Italian restaurant was so expensive. I thought Gage was lying about the inconceivably high prices. The lasagna tastes like something that my poor tastebuds have never even fathomed. It’s so rich that everything disintegrates into melted mush beneath my teeth, and the flavors blend together in an equally intoxicating fusion of tangy tomato and creamy cheese. I moan involuntarily, too blissed out to feel Gage’s legs shift beneath me.

The fork clatters to the plate and Gage grinds his teeth together, making a strangled noise that sounds like some kind of inhuman hiss. “Baby, you can’t be making those noises when you’re sitting on my lap.”

I have to blink a few times to understand what he’s saying, and then embarrassment drips down my nape, combining with the cold sweat now clamming up my forehead. “Sorry.”

Oh, God. Who moans when they eat?

“No, it’s…fuck. Don’t apologize.”

He doesn’t say much apart from some weakly strung together sentences, squeezing his eyes shut like he’ll magically dissipate the sexual tension between us—impossible, by the way. I’m halfway to sliding off his lap when he grabs my arm and keeps me from getting any further.

His eyes open, freezing me over. “Did I say you could move?”

His tone skirts along growly, forcibly taking the last of my words and muddling them beyond a coherent response. Everything in my body is craving him, that low simmer of arousal flaring into a high flame of uninhibited desire. It doesn’t take a detective to deduce that the hardness pressing into my left leg isn’t a set of inconveniently placed car keys.

I shake my head.

“Then sit back down,” he orders.

I do as he says, trying my best to keep my hands to myself by plopping them pathetically in my lap, and I glance at his untouched meal growing colder by the minute. It’s a delectable chicken dish, crisped to perfection and slathered in a golden glaze.

“What about your meal?” I ask, unsure if he’s expecting me to feed it to him too, surprisingly not fully against the idea, either.

He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re more important. You’re always more important.”

My initial gratitude transmutes into concern. Concern strong enough to start an argument if I’m not careful. “I can say the same thing about you. So if you’re feeding me, then I’m feeding you too,” I insist, picking up his fork and slicing right into that juicy chicken breast.

He goes to (unwisely) protest, but I fill his piehole with a healthy serving of Italian food, smiling triumphantly when he gives in and starts to chew. I don’t know why I don’t look away. I stare straight at him, intimately tracking the movement of his throat as he swallows. Eating food shouldn’t be sexy, okay? But anything Gage does is sexy, and right now, I’m failing to fight off these godforsaken hormones.

He nods to the dessert. “The chocolate budino.”

I mirror his line of sight to replace a mound of chocolate drizzled in caramel sauce, garnished with two mint leaves and a lilac-colored flower. I wipe residual chicken off the fork with a napkin, then carve out a scoop of this magical-looking dessert that’s the consistency of custard.

I gather a silky and luscious heaping, stick it into his mouth, and then yelp when he pulls me into a kiss, his tongue swiping a heaping of chocolate over my own. I can still taste him even through the thick veil of cocoa, but fuck, do I feel like I’m levitating as he feeds me every last morsel. Saliva mixes with sweetness, thickens between us, clings against the inside of my cheeks. Once I’ve swallowed everything, he continues to kiss me, unsatiated, using his free hand to caress the back of my head. I change my position and swing my right leg over his hip so I’m straddling him, grinding my center over the unmistakable bulge that’s grown in his pants.

“This was supposed to be romantic,” he breathes against my lips, doing his fucking all to try and maintain some strand of control. I applaud him for that, I truly do.

“It is,” I whisper. “Because I’m with you. I don’t need some fancy candlelit dinner, Gage. I love it, but I don’t need it.”

He pulls back, and I cradle his cheeks in my hands.

“I just want to do this boyfriend thing right.”

“You are. It’s annoying, but you’re actually doing everything right.”

There’s a glimpse of that cocky attitude I fell for in the first place, and the one that I think I secretly love. “You make it easy, Cali. I might not be good at a lot of shit in life, but I’ll be damned if I’m not the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

You already are, I think to myself. And you’ll be the last boyfriend I ever have.