Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(11)

“I didn’t text you,” she says when she sobers, placing her hands on the bar in front of her. She’s wearing a high-necked shirt with sleeves, but the shoulders are cut out. The innocuous part of her that’s exposed is oddly thrilling. Especially with a pale pink rosebud visible. I shift my eyes to her face, glance at her diamond nose stud, and meet her gaze again.

“Change your mind?” I ask, careful not to sound peeved. To be clear, I’m not peeved. I’m curious. When it comes to Grace, insatiably so.

“Why? Are you going to call the blonde at the gym?” She hoists an auburn eyebrow.

“How do you know she was blond?” I feign confusion. Grace smiles.

“I didn’t change my mind. But I’m not going to choose a package beforehand.”

“No?” I’m intrigued.

“Nope.” She shakes her head and soft curls coast over her smooth skin. “What if I choose the Davis but decide halfway through the date I want to put my hand in your pants?”

I shouldn’t have taken that drink. I sputter and cough, and she laughs, the sound tinkling and cherubic. Too bad I know about the horns poking out of her hair. She’s not innocent.

“Or,” she continues as I clear my throat again, “what if I choose platinum but then learn you’re a horrible kisser? Horrible kissers are notorious for being unable to satisfy me in bed.”

This time my cough is more a sound of disbelief. My mouth is open, poised to defend myself, as my mind whirls. Satisfying Grace in bed—or in the car—or right fucking here, in the bathroom of McGreevy’s, is a challenge I’m up for.

She holds me hostage with hypnotizing jade green eyes. “I can be demanding, Davis. I’m not sure you could handle me.”

I shut my mouth so hard my teeth clack. Then, through the tension humming around us, reply with, “Say the word and you’ll find out.”

We stay like that for two, three, twelve seconds. I’m not sure. She blinks first, but only because the bell rings over the door announcing a new arrival to McGreevy’s.

My best friend, Vince, has horrible timing.

“What’s shaking, guys?” He’s dressed for work—jeans and a button-down, a vest with a watch pocket in the front. Vince has the look of an artist even working in a business setting. It’s admirable. If I lost the suit, who knows what bad luck would befall me? Maybe I am superstitious.

“I thought you were hanging out with Jackie tonight,” I tell Vince as he sits next to me. I don’t relish the idea of an audience while I strike out with Grace, so hopefully she saves the really humiliating stuff for after he leaves.

“She’s coming over, so I ordered takeout.”

I can’t get used to Vince with a girlfriend. Vince with a wife was something to behold, but I can’t remember him this relaxed around Leslie. Vince with Jackie is just…Vince. With Jackie. He’s able to exist in the same space with her yet they’re still themselves—only they’re in love and getting laid a lot more often.

I’m happy for him.

“Here you go, Vince.” Grace places the bag on the bar and completely blocks Vince’s face. Only until he pays and takes the bag in hand do I see him again.

“What the hell do you have in there?” I ask.

“Four entrées. We get hungry after we work out, so I make sure we have midnight snacks. You know. Work out.” The grinning idiot. He pats the bar, then takes his leave, calling over his shoulder, “See you guys!”

I roll my eyes.

“I think it’s sweet,” Grace says to me after he leaves. “He seems like a guy who deserves to be happy.” Before I can agree, she continues, “Never really thought about deserving happiness myself. I’ve always been more of a go-with-the-flow kind of girl.”

“I would’ve guessed that about you.”

I have the sudden urge to suss out her story. I want to know what makes her tick, which is a new desire for me. I normally keep my dates surface. Deep diving isn’t my norm.

“Is that why you won’t choose a package?” I ask, steering her back to the topic at hand.

“Be honest, Davis. Do the girls you date seriously choose a package?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” Her face scrunches. I hold up a palm as if taking an oath.

“Hand to God.”

“Every time?”

“Not every time. In the case of the one-night stand, we don’t get that far.”

She harrumphs, which is cute. “Don’t you miss the spontaneity of not knowing what comes next?”

“I get enough spontaneity at work.”

“I can’t get enough spontaneity.” Her teeth close over her bottom lip and again my mind goes to what she tastes like. Sweet? Spicy? Sweet and spicy?

Then she’s off to do her job and I’m in a familiar spot: sitting at the bar, waiting for her to walk by.

Only now I add to my preoccupations wondering when our date is going to start tonight.

Grace didn’t technically say yes, but she didn’t say no. That’s as good as a yes.





Grace


Davis is still here and it’s pushing eight o’clock. My relief showed up a half an hour ago in the form of Candace. She’s sixty years old and so short she only comes up to my boobs. She’s one of those dames who ride Harleys and cut their teeth in dusty, dangerous biker bars. There’s something pretty about how rough-hewn she is, though. From her smoky, deep voice to the way she can lift a keg.