Rock Chick Reawakening (Rock Chick 0.5)(28)

This was my thought as I leaned over the basin, whisking on one last coat of lip gloss and listening to ZZ Top when I heard, “Daisy.”

I jumped a mile, whirled, and cried, “Lord!”

I also saw Marcus lounging in the doorway to my bathroom.

“You scared the dickens out of me!” I snapped loudly, shoving the wand of the gloss back in the tube.

He sauntered in, reached out to my portable, and turned down the music.

He then leaned a hip against my bathroom counter like it was his bathroom counter, crossed his arms on his chest and stated, “I knocked. For five minutes. To ascertain if I needed to purchase a ticket to Timbuktu, I let myself in. Not easy for you to hear a knock over that music, honey.”

“It isn’t seven yet,” I retorted.

“It’s twelve past.”

I didn’t have a clock in the bathroom and I wasn’t wearing a watch, and further, there was no reason for him to lie. So I just did the only option available to me.

I formed my mouth into a pout.

He grinned at me.

“If it’s twelve past and you knocked for five minutes, either you’re shit at pickin’ a lock or you’re late,” I noted.

His grin became a smile I felt in my coochie.

God!

“Just something to know about me,” he began, “I’m not shit at picking a lock.”

“I’ll file that away,” I replied but didn’t stop speaking. “Just something to know in order to just know it, it ain’t polite to sneak up on a woman and it really ain’t polite to interrupt her gettin’ ready for your date.”

His eyes did a sweep of me.

I felt that in my nipples (and my coochie).

“You’re not ready?”

I was.

I just needed to put my shoes on.

“I don’t have my shoes on.”

“Not sure shoes can make all that better,” he said low. “But I bet if anyone could manage that, it’d be you.”

I tried to remain annoyed; I just couldn’t.

“You’ve messed up the opportunity to see the full show,” I pointed out.

“Trust me, darling, when I get it, it won’t be unappreciated.”

With his response, I finally took him in.

He was wearing a blue suit, a crisp light-blue shirt, and a silk tie in a blue that was three shades darker than the suit and had a matching pocket square. His dark hair was thick. The cut gave him fullness at the top without it looking overly styled, short but not buzzed at the sides and back, and unlike that morning, when it was messy and falling over his forehead, it was now swept back from his handsome face.

He looked GQ.

I looked like Dolly Parton impossibly created a love child with Peg Bundy (no, I rocked that look).

But suddenly, my stomach felt like it was sinking.

“Daisy?”

My focus returned to him.

He’d sensed the feeling I had.

How had he done that?

No. No. Marcus Sloan being scarily adept at tuning himself to me was something I was not going to think about. Not then. Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever.

“Daisy,” he prompted gently.

“We don’t match,” I said quietly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re GQ. I’m Peg Bundy.”

He gave one nod, declaring, “Yes, and lose the cigarette, Peg Bundy was gorgeous.”

I stared.

Then I asked, “Are you being serious with me?”

His brows drew together. “Are you being serious asking that question?”

I nodded my head and felt my hair go with it.

Marcus watched my hair. His lips quirked then he looked at me.

“She was supposed to be funny, she was in a sitcom,” he reminded me.

“Right,” I whispered.

“That didn’t make her any less beautiful.”

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, wondering if he was real or if I’d slipped into a coma after that jackass raped me.

Maybe I’d slammed my head against the asphalt. I didn’t feel it happen but then I wouldn’t. I’d have been in a coma.

“I prefer blondes, though,” he stated.

Lord, help me.

“You of course know,” he began informatively, “that one of the most attractive things a woman can be is knowing exactly who she is, embracing that entirely, and not giving that first f*ck what anyone thinks about it.”

“You’re freakin’ me out,” I informed him right back.

“Freak out in the car,” he ordered, leaning into me, grabbing my hand, and dragging me out of the bathroom. “I skipped lunch. I’m starved.”

I yanked on my hand when we were in my bedroom but he didn’t let it go.

Though he did stop.

“You skipped lunch?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“You shouldn’t skip a meal, sugar. Your body and brain need nourishing regularly to take on the day. My guess, your line of business, you need to stay sharp. Losin’ focus due to hunger pains don’t say sharp.”

Bizarrely, his reply came in a growl.

“You need to put your shoes on, get your bag, and get in my car, Daisy.”

I again stared at him, doing it this time asking, “Pardon?”