“Trust me?” Grayson asked.
“Trust a guy who hauled me over his shoulder and kidnapped me?” She looked toward the bar.
“Yeah, trust that guy.”
“I do trust you.” She poked him in his chest. “But if I end up on the front of some rag magazine, I’m hiding out in your basement. With Christmas, chocolate, and a boatload of horror movies that you have to watch with me.”
“Sweetheart, if you move into my house, you won’t be watching movies or hiding out in the basement. You’ll be lucky if you make it out of the bedroom. In fact”—he slid his hand to the nape of her neck, causing her eyes to glaze over with desire—“maybe I should take a few of those pictures and make that happen.” He’d taken a chance, saying something so brazen and holding her like this in the cab of his truck, but he couldn’t hold back.
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