Bad Cruz(45)

“It’s a goddamn fact I wish wasn’t true because it has been distracting me since my years on the high school football team when you’d come to Rob’s games. What’s gotten into you?”

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.

That was a lot to unpack, but he delivered the barb with such ease, with an almost mocking smirk, I forced myself not to pry the subject open. I couldn’t afford to argue with him publicly and/or kiss him.

Not tonight.

“I’m trying not to cause you any trouble.”

“By being the most boring woman on planet Earth?”

“By trying to act like someone you’d actually be seen with,” I snapped, my nose and eyes feeling unbearably hot with humiliation.

I wasn’t going to cry, of course, but I was feeling all kinds of weird about trying to pacify a man who wasn’t my father or Bear. It went against my religion or something.

He groaned, flagging down our waitress.

“My only issue with you is that you like to dress the part people in town gave you. The rest of your personality is amusing to me. I can handle crazy. I speak the language fluently.”

The waitress approached, hugging a round black tray to her chest and looking at Cruz like he was her dessert assortment.

“Can you please get my wife that coconut cocktail she likes?”

“Upside-down Christmas margarita?” she beamed.

“With extra marshmallows,” I murmured quietly. Because dang, it was good. “And a whiskey for the gentleman, please. I don’t want to get drunk alone.”

“Any preferences?”

Cruz gave her his preference—of course he had one—and a moment later, I was sucking sweet, alcoholic goodness from a straw.

“You know you can drop the married undercover story. People must know we’re not a real couple by now.”

“I like to keep ’em guessing.” He threw me an enigmatic look. “I have a confession to make.”

“Will it make me want to punch your face?” I asked.

“Very possibly.”

“Then please wait until we go back to the room. I’m trying my hardest not to embarrass you.”

“Drink your cocktail, Tennessee. You’re impossible when you’re sober and eager to please.”

“Why do you call me that?” I dutifully sucked on my straw. “Tennessee. To everyone else, I’m Messy Nessy.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think you’re all that messy. And besides, Nessy reminds me of the Loch Ness monster, and frankly, I think you’re giving it a bad rep.”

I polished off the cocktail quickly and ordered another one with the dessert assortment, which, by the way, I pounced on, not giving Cruz the faintest opportunity to even taste a crumb.

“Where does all this food go?” Cruz finally asked, his eyes big and full of surprise.

I patted my flat stomach. “I have a fast metabolism.”

Oops.

That was just another way of saying I pooped a lot, wasn’t it? I wasn’t as guarded after two drinks in me, but I gave myself a free pass because we were still having a pleasant evening.

“I remember you used to eat a donut every morning and dissect the sprinkles one by one with your index finger and thumb and nibble on them slowly in high school.”

My mother used to take it as a personal offense that I did not gain weight from that habit. My lithe body was a genetic gift from my father’s side.

Trinity had taken after my mother. They were both always falling in and out of diets. Weight Watchers. South Beach. Ketogenic. Mediterranean. The baby food diet.

The clip-your-nose-while-you-eat diet was the worst. They did that so they couldn’t smell the food. Unfortunately, they also couldn’t breathe, which put a real dent in their efforts to survive it.

Anyway, and back to our subject, it surprised me that Cruz had paid any attention to me at all. I grew up thinking he was blissfully oblivious to my existence as more than Rob’s little, annoying girlfriend. If even that.

I curved an eyebrow. “You seem to remember a lot about me in high school.”

“I have a good memory.”

“Or stalking tendencies.”

“Ah, there she is. Soft as barbwire and just as subtle.”

“I’m starting to think you’re enjoying this.” I narrowed my eyes.

“I am. You’re giving me trouble. No one ever gives me trouble.”

“Such a hard life.” I put the back of my hand to my forehead, like an outraged Victorian duchess.

He leaned forward, letting his elbows drop on the table. Such a small gesture, and still, it filled me with unexpected delight to know that even the Almighty Dr. Cruz Costello could use a few table manner tweaks.

“So. What do you want me to teach you first?” he asked.

“How to make an entire town believe you’re the Lord’s gift when it is perfectly obvious you are Mr. Average with a fabulous ’stache?”

“I mean in the casino.”

But his smile widened further, making my knees part involuntarily under the table. I licked my lips when I thought about the dusting of dark blond hair peppered on his chest.

Yesterday at the pool was the first time since I was sixteen that I’d wanted to climb someone like a tree. My sexuality had been so dormant in recent years, I hadn’t realized it was still buried inside me.