Rock Bottom Girl(63)
“So, Marley. Tell me about yourself. If you won the lottery, what would you do with the money?”
She laughed approvingly. “Nice question.”
I tipped my head all princely like.
“I’d pay off my mountain of debt,” she decided.
“Student loans?” I asked with a frown.
She shook her head. “It’s embarrassing. My last job was a start-up that offered buy-in options. I could be a partner in the business, and I liked the idea of that. I dipped into my savings, then drained it trying to ride to the rescue. Before I knew it, my savings were gone, and so was my job. The company folded, and I had to take out a personal loan just to cover expenses.”
Our beers arrived, and we clinked bottles.
“That sucks,” I told her. “Say your debt is magically gone. What’s the most frivolous thing you’d spend your lottery winnings on?”
She took a long pull on her beer and closed her eyes. “I always wanted to road-trip across the country. Stop and see all the biggest balls of twine. Live off of beef jerky and convenience store snacks.”
“Road trips aren’t lottery expensive,” I pointed out.
“No, but taking the time off from work is. I’ve never had a job with more than two weeks’ paid vacation. And most of that got sucked up by holidays.”
“You’re a teacher now. That gives you the entire summer for your beef-jerky fueled adventure.”
“I’m a teacher until Christmas. Then it’s hasta la vista, Culpepper.”
“What do you want to do after?” I asked, leaning in, not really loving the idea of her packing up and moving on again.
She shrugged. “I have no idea. Nothing’s ever been a good fit.”
The V in her flannel kept drawing my eyes. I liked seeing that long line of her throat, the subtle curve of her breast when the shirt gaped open.
“Hey, no cleavage staring on the first date, buddy. Eye contact only,” she said.
I snapped out of my hypnotic state.
“Sorry. Old habits.”
“What would you do if you won the lottery?” she asked.
“That’s easy. I’d buy Homer a diamond-encrusted collar.”
38
Jake
This dating deal wasn’t half bad. Mars and I ate our way through the standard getting-to-know-you practice questions. Either I was totally nailing the charming and delightful thing or she was an excellent faker.
We dealt with the attention from curious onlookers by pretending not to notice it. I understood the interest. Though a Culpepper native, Mars was technically new in town and creating a stir. And then there was me, the perma-bachelor who allegedly took one look at grown-up Marley Cicero and decided to change his wild ways.
I snagged the check off the table while Marley boxed up her leftovers. “What should we do for dessert?” I asked wolfishly.
She raised an eyebrow at me. “Why do I think you’re not talking about ice cream?”
I leaned in flirtatiously. “Why, Ms. Cicero, are you coming on to me?”
She mirrored my move and rested her elbows on the table. “In your dreams.”
“Well, seeing as how we already slept together, my dreams are your dreams,” I pointed out.
She slapped a hand over my mouth and glanced around. Culpepper had sensitive ears and big mouths everywhere.
I nipped at her palm with my teeth, and she narrowed her eyes. “You’re bad news, Weston.”
“Don’t I know it,” I said, pulling her hand away from my mouth and holding it.
“Oh, shit,” she breathed.
But she wasn’t reacting to my expert level flirting. She was looking over my shoulder.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, twisting on my seat to see who was stealing my thunder here.
Amie Jo Hostetter, in icepick heels and fashion-forward baby blue sweatpants that probably cost more than my property taxes this month, strutted in. Her hair was big. Her makeup was troweled on. And she had a hand wrapped around her husband’s wrist.
He glanced our way, and I saw the second he recognized Marley.
“Figures he’d age well,” she muttered pretending to be enthralled with the table top.
“That the type you usually go for?” I didn’t much care for that. Travis was a clean-shaven, ironed-clothes kind of guy. He got his hair cut every three weeks and spent a small fortune on hair products and custom-tailored Oxford shirts to fit his narrow frame. His only hobby was golf. Talk about a snooze fest.
High school me would have—and probably had—referred to him as a pretty boy. He was soft and smooth. Nice guy, but a schmoozer. And I couldn’t imagine someone like Marley ending up with someone like him. She’d be bored to tears within a week.
“Are you forgetting the fact that I dumped him in high school for you?” she hissed.
“You did not,” I argued. “You broke up with him because you were bored to death.”
“Just shut up and stop looking at him—them. Oh, God. Here they come. They’re coming over!”
I squeezed her hand. “Chill out. You’re here with me, your boyfriend, remember?”
She straightened. “Right. Okay. Good. I forgot.”