Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(2)

“Gracie Lou!”

That’s not exactly my name. Grace is my name. He added the flair. Gracie Lou has a cute dinerish sound to it, doesn’t it? The nickname has the added bonus of reminding me why I don’t see Davis as even a Mr. Right Now. The expiration date with us has already passed. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I turn to look over my shoulder and find his full lips pulled into a frown. His thick, dark brows center over smoky gray eyes. This grouchy expression does little to dampen his attractiveness.

When he doesn’t say more, I sigh and pace back to him. That’s new. I never go to him unless it’s on my time.

Or maybe I’m overanalyzing.

“Your hair’s different.” He’s still frowning.

“So?” It takes everything in me not to reach up and touch the ringlet I can see out of the corner of my eye. I don’t need Davis’s approval just because I bought a new curling iron and soft-hold hairspray I wanted to try out.

“So?” He tilts his head and his frown deepens. “You have a date or something?”

Ah, this will be fun. I give him a slow, devil-may-care blink and smirk. “Maybe.”

I don’t have a date unless I give Two-Dollar Gregg a call. I go on dates every once in a while. The men I date stick around at least twice as long as Davis’s flavor of the week, but he’s got me lapped in frequency.

Davis nods, sips his beer, and rakes a glance down my rhinestone T-shirt and tight black jeans. The rhinestones match the glinting diamond stud in my right nostril. Oh, and there are a few tasteful, usually hidden tattoos.

Even if Davis and I had more than a passing curiosity about each other, I know for a fact that Suit & Tie prefers his women in pearls, not rhinestones. Loose pastels, not skintight black skinny jeans; and without ornamental piercings or ink.

Oh well. At least Gregg liked me.





Davis


Excitement is overrated.

Wait. Hear me out.

Excitement has a way of hiding in sheep’s clothing. It manifests itself as a charge of recognition in the air, revving your pulse. Tingling your balls. Promising a damn good time. But underneath that damn good time there’s danger.

Which is exactly what makes excitement so exciting.

Grace Buchanan excites me.

I don’t like that Grace Buchanan excites me.

Let’s say I’ve had a brush with that type of danger. I’m not looking to get burned again. It’s like the one time you try to light the grill using too much kerosene. The reward for your stupidity is no eyebrows. So, if you’re smart, you don’t go there again.

I’m smart.

I date. A lot. The women I date are…not exciting. This is a recent epiphany, so bear with me. When I first started dating for sport, there was excitement. Then the challenge fizzled out, and what was left was predictability. Predictability is a lot of things—I’m a big fan—but predictability could never be mistaken for excitement.

The women I date are blond. They’re sophisticated and fun. They have goals and dreams and wishes and desires. But our handful of nights spent together aren’t about scratching the surface of what makes them tick. The women I date want an itch scratched, just not that one. It’s the naked, horizontal kind of itch.

I don’t get to know them and they don’t get to know me, and most of the time things end amicably—oftentimes before they get started. That’s the way it’s been for several years and it’s completely fine.

Or I should say it was completely fine.

Along came Grace and suddenly “fine” is starting to look a lot like “routine.” Routine, like predictability, isn’t negative. Routine is how I measure and live my life on a day-to-day basis. Routine I understand. Routine I can control.

I shake my head as the redheaded bartender pulls a beer tap and throws a casual glance toward the door, purposely looking past me. There’s nothing controlled or routine or predictable about that one.

Her hair is always red, but sometimes it’s auburn, other times Crayola red, other times carrot. Her clothes vary from rock-and-roll to retro to casual jeans and tee. I take that back. There are a few things about Grace that do not change. The diamond in her nose that’s too tiny to notice until it catches the light just right, and the tattoo I’ve spotted on the back of her right shoulder, trickling down her biceps on her right arm. Roses. Pink and red intermixed with a symphony of green leaves.

She’s wearing a shirt that covers every inch of the ink—

Wait.

She shifts and the corner of a leaf makes itself known. If there are more tattoos hidden under her clothes, I’ve yet to catch a glimpse of them. Unless they’re in spots inappropriate to share in public.

Fuck, that’s a nice thought.

I’ve tried convincing myself that Grace is nothing but a collection of perfect physical attributes. From shapely thighs to a mouthwatering pair of breasts to the feisty glint in her eye. Mark my words: She’s a girl who chews men up and spits them out for fun.

Grace is hot in such a way that a man could be blind in both eyes and still notice her. It’s impossible to ignore the way she carries herself. Confidence straightens her back as her gaze finds my eyes, challenging me to a staring contest she knows I’ll refuse to lose. Nothing’s as attractive as the way her voice dips to a husky alto when she’s serious or lilts into laughter when she’s not. Like when she’s giving me shit for an offside remark I lob at her.