Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(2)
Case in point: When she glanced up to discover that damned irresistible dimple of his winking at her, every cell in her body came to a hard stop like her father’s old English setter did when he spotted a squirrel. And like that dog, she was pretty sure her whole body was now quivering.
Does he even know he’s doing it?
Probably not, she decided, which made it worse.
“I just stopped by for a second to pick up a friend who found himself in need of a designated driver,” he explained. “And who was also in need of a voice of sanity to keep him from going home with a philosophy major who was far too young for him.”
“Too young for him? Let me guess,” she groused, standing and slinging her purse strap over her shoulder. “This philosophy major was what? Eighteen? Nineteen? Last I heard, that’s past the age of consent.”
Carlos mirrored her movement, rising in one graceful motion that was the polar opposite of her near face-plant into the grille of the Buick. He held on to her books, tucking them under his arm, causing his brown suede jacket to bunch up and reveal his trim waist. What she wouldn’t give to turn back the clock a couple of minutes so she could take the opportunity to wrap her arms around that waist. “She was twenty, and… Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” he grumped when she did exactly that. “That’s too young to be carousing around with a guy who’s my age.”
“Yes, because twenty-five is positively ancient.” She wrinkled her nose. “I see daily doses of prune juice and Bengay in your immediate future, you poor thing.”
He made a face at her.
She made one right back.
“And to get back to the point,” she said, “I don’t have a hangover.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I prefer to think of it as wine flu.”
He barked out a laugh, and she would swear she felt the sound low in her belly. When the cool breeze tousled the hair near his temple, she hastily reached out to take her books from him. Not only was she already running late for her meeting, but she also needed something to fill her hands lest she find them burrowing themselves through his sleek, black locks.
“Which reminds me.” He glanced toward one of the three Secret Service agents who had melded back into the landscape the instant it became clear she wasn’t in danger of falling into the street. “What’s the matter with your security detail? Don’t they know better than to let you drink? You’re underage. Do I need to have a talk with them?”
Oh, geez. It was bad enough she hadn’t had a single moment of privacy since her father made public his bid for his party’s nomination to be the next president of the United States. But it was worse still that everyone was highly aware of the presence of the requisite Secret Service agents who came part and parcel with her being the next prospective first daughter—the next likely first daughter if all the political pundits and talking heads were to be believed. It made most people act funny around her, like they were afraid they were ten seconds away from taking a bullet to the brain or something. Or in the case of Carlos—the big, beautiful buttmunch—it made him constantly try to enlist the agents into curtailing what she considered perfectly normal college-girl activities.
“You’ll be glad to know”—she grudgingly informed him as they turned to continue up the sidewalk. From the corner of her eye, she saw her security detail fall into step with them—“that Agent Mitchell already gave me some donkey barbecue over the two measly glasses of sangria I drank. He informed me, in that gruff tone of his that’s far too much like my father’s, that I need to be more careful than the average university student. That I have to consider how my actions could impact the upcoming election. Which means, no. There’s absolutely no need for you to have a talk with them. But thanks for offering all the same.”
“You’re welcome.”
She shot him an exasperated glance. “I take it you missed the sarcasm in my tone.”
“Oh, I caught it. I just chose to ignore it,” he admitted as a young woman, one Abby was almost certain had been in her calculus class last spring, brushed by them. The brown-haired Barbie eyed Carlos with what Abby suspected was supposed to be a covert look of longing. But the blushing and giggling Barbie did when he glanced her way completely ruined her ruse. Abby rolled her eyes and made a gagging sound.
Carlos nudged her with his elbow.
She rammed her shoulder into his arm in retaliation.
“Stop it,” he said.
“You stop it,” she countered.
With a wide grin making his already handsome face just that much more…well, handsome…he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “So, uh, what exactly is donkey barbecue anyway?”
“It means ass chewing. Duh.” She would have teased him about being an old coot who no longer kept up with youthful slang, but that would do nothing to forward her campaign of making him realize their six-year age difference was really nothing in the grand scheme of things.
Again he barked out a laugh, one that reverberated somewhere in the vicinity of her womb. “The things that come out of your mouth…”
Yep, that’s me. Silly little Abby. Always good for a chuckle.
“So where are we headed?” he asked, shortening his steps to match hers. A breeze blew the smell of the changing seasons at them, and there was the promise of turning leaves and long rainy days in the air.