“You can stop me here. I’ll find my way back home,” Marceline muttered, her voice barely above a whisper but soaked in ice. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on the city speeding by, hoping the motion would distract her from the weight in her chest.
Cross didn’t flinch. He kept driving, one hand lazily on the wheel, the other tapping rhythmically against the gearshift. A smug smirk played on his lips. “You know that’s not going to work, wifey. We still have to eat lunch together. I can’t allow you to leave without having something in your stomach.”
That word—wifey—scraped at her nerves like sandpaper. It sounded so wrong coming from him. It didn’t belong in his mouth.
Marceline whipped her head toward him, glaring daggers. “Cross, your presence alone irritates the hell out o
