Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(12)



“You going to keep that poor boy waiting all night, Grace?” she asks as she stuffs ones in the drawer in every which direction. Facedown, faceup, left, right…I reorganize them when we work together. She’s worked here a few weeks, but already she feels like family.

“He’s not waiting. He’s always here.” I tell the white lie with a small smile, but I grab my purse from beneath the counter anyway.

“Yeah, but tonight he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”

My smile broadens. I can’t prevent it from happening. The idea that a guy is pining for me doesn’t get my rocks off or anything, but the idea of Davis waiting, watching, and anticipating is kind of thrilling.

Earlier tonight I told him I like to fly by the seat of my pants.

It’s safe to say I’m ready for takeoff.

“I’m done, but I have to go home and change,” I tell Davis as I approach from the customer side of the bar.

“I’ll follow you.”

That stops me short.

“Don’t you want to go home and change too?” Not that the navy suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy tie are a bad look. At all.

Purr.

“I changed into this for our date.” He stands smoothly, buttoning his jacket. There’s a folded kerchief in his pocket, sticking out a scant inch, but enough so I make out the burgundy and navy plaid print. Damn, he’s attractive.

“Well. I’m underdressed.” I gesture to my jeans and T-shirt.

“Overdressed for my taste, but you were the one who said you can’t commit to a package.” He stands over me, making me feel dainty and delicate, which is no easy task. I’m neither of those things. In his capable, masculine presence, the desire to let him care for me is strong.

And scary.

How many men have I watched walk away?

My dad. My mom’s boyfriend. My boyfriends.

Thank God I smartened up. No trust equals no heartbreak.

“You aren’t seriously going to wait for me at my house, are you?” I step into the perfect September evening. Sixtysomething degrees with a cool crispness to the air that makes me long for bonfires and cider and Halloween costumes.

“Depends.” He places his hand on my lower back, the warmth and comfort welcome and foreign at the same time. “Will you invite me in?”

“No hanky-panky,” I warn, slowing as we approach my royal blue Mini Cooper with a fuzzy pair of dice dangling from the mirror.

“On my honor, Gracie Lou, I won’t pressure you. You can come to me.” Davis leans close, his lips over my ear when he adds, “And then you can come for me.”

My thudding heartbeat manages to pound between my legs as well as in my chest. Doing anything for Davis’s pleasure should feel stifling and unwanted, but it doesn’t.

Lord, this is such a bad idea. Luckily, the premonition of doom never stopped me before.

“You’re welcome to a seat on my sofa and a drink from my fridge while I get ready,” I tell him as I slide into the driver’s seat.

“Can’t wait,” he says before shutting me in. Then he’s walking across the lot to his car—a shiny black Mercedes that he roars to life, pulls from its spot, and idles.

He’s waiting for me again.

I really like that.





Davis


Grace has a tiny house.

I don’t mean one of those newfangled houses on wheels with a bucket for a toilet—not a trademarked “tiny house”—just that her house is on the small side.

A steep-roofed A-frame tucked in a residential area, it’s not clear to me at first if she owns or rents. Rents, I’m guessing. Unless she has an inheritance. This neighborhood is pricey.

Unsurprisingly, Grace’s house isn’t fussy or overly tidy. The front door opens to a living room and kitchen—one room—and an alcove to the right opens to a bathroom. She jogged upstairs the moment she let me in. The loftlike area at the top of the stairs is her bedroom.

She’s bent over her dresser across from the bed, pulling out black lace. She gestures with the panties when she says, “In the fridge you’ll find beer and maybe some leftover white wine. Help yourself.”

“Sure you don’t need my help with anything up there?” My voice is thick, my eyes on the panties. I bet she’s mouthwatering wearing those.

From the drawer she extracts a black see-through lace bra, hooks it on her finger, and says, “Nope,” before disappearing behind a privacy panel.

Cruel. She did that on purpose.

The living room is simple. A red fabric sofa covered in bright yellow pillows and a colorful afghan stands against the wall, flanked by a pair of end tables. One of the tables is cluttered with books, like the shelf next to it. The other holds a lamp and a candle. I grab a beer from the fridge—Sam Adams. Does Grace drink it, or did she buy this brand with me in mind?

Dangerous thought, that one. I’m flirting with the dating faux pas of overthinking. That’s why the packages come in handy. Then I know what to do next. What she expects.

Grace is determined to keep me limber.

I find a glass, not hard to do since there are all of two cabinets in her minuscule kitchen, and empty the bottle into it. There’s a full dish drainer by the sink. The dishes are dry. While I sip my beer, I slide her plates, bowls, and glasses into the cabinet. She catches me as I’m tucking away the last of the silverware.

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