Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(20)

“Gracie Lou.” Davis, still in the pink-on-pink shirt-and-tie combo from this morning, slides into his assigned seat and nods at Dax. Dax says nothing, only turns and walks away.

Charming.

“He’s back,” Davis states as I deliver his Sam Adams bottle.

“He is. And he’s asking where Margo is. Like I know?”

“Dance lessons.”

“What?”

Davis swallows a mouthful of beer. I watch his throat work and remember kissing it while he worked us both into a sweaty frenzy. Gosh. That’s a distracting thought.

“Margo is taking tango lessons with her husband. That’s why she wasn’t here last night.”

“You came in last night?” I ask thinly. I didn’t know Davis came in when I wasn’t here. A twinge of hurt radiates through me and I give myself a mental slap in the face. So we had sex. So what? I’m not going to let my lizard brain attach the rest of my body to Davis no matter how great our private parts work together. “How fun!”

Geez. Again with the chirping.

It’s Davis’s turn to frown.

“Successful day at the keyboard, I take it.” I not-so-smoothly change the subject.

“Oh, you mean that million?” His lips flinch. All I can think about is the way his fingers felt twined in my hair this morning. “All in a day’s work.”

“Menu?”

“Hit me.”

The crowd picks up after dinner and soon I’m slinging drinks left and right. Davis has his eyes on the TV as per his usual, but unlike my usual I’m not ignoring him. Quite the opposite. I throw glances his way every chance I get. To watch him take a drink, or blink, or breathe. He’s fascinating and beautiful in a way I’ve never thought about before.

Currently, however, I’m more fascinated by the perky blonde sidling up to him. She’s flashing her pearly whites and flipping her flaxen hair. I mix a margarita in a metal shaker and keep my eyes on her—and on Davis.

She rolls her eyes and cocks one hip. Her pursed lips shine with gloss.

Davis offers a standard smile as she talks, dipping his chin as he casually spins his beer bottle on the bar top.

I’m feeling…I don’t know what. “Jealous” isn’t the word, but I certainly am not feeling magnanimous toward the cute girl trying to nab the guy I went home with two days ago.

“?’Scuse me, sugar.” Candace nudges past me to grab a cherry for the manhattan she just mixed. She came in about twenty minutes ago to bartend. She hands the drink over to the server who ordered it. I find myself directly in her path after I deliver the margarita to a waiting guest.

I step to move around her but she blocks me. “How long are you going to shoot lasers at that girl hitting on your man?”

I force a loud “ha-ha!” in hopes of convincing her she’s reading way too much into the way I’m looking at Davis.

She doesn’t buy it. I can tell by the half-lidded slow blink.

“He’s not my man,” I state and feel better the moment it’s out of my mouth.

“But you two slept together.”

My mouth gapes and I palm Candace’s arm and drag her off to one side. She comes with me under her own steam. No way could I physically move her if she didn’t want to be moved. Her center of gravity is much lower than mine.

“Tell me you can’t tell that Davis and I had sex by looking at me.” My plea is a frantic whisper.

“I can tell,” she says. “But I’m the only one who can tell. Been there before, gorgeous.” She shoots an assessing look at Davis. “He’s here to see you. Don’t let the blondie bother you.”

Even if Davis slept with the perky blonde in his past, Candace is right. I’m not in competition with any woman who occupies his bed before or after me. I shake “the blondie” off and take care of the immediate problems before me: a server’s well full of drinks that require the dreaded blender (I hate making strawberry daiquiris) and a few guests with food needing sides of this and extra that.

Once that’s done, I glide by Davis. His company has parted, and his beer is empty.

“Refill?” I offer.

“Nah. Cash me out.”

My stomach sinks. Did the blonde leave her mark? Is Davis leaving with her?

I convince myself I don’t care, cash him out, and return with the receipt. He offers his credit card and I take it, but he doesn’t release it right away, trapping us in a tiny plastic tug-of-war.

“Do you work Saturday?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Three.”

“Do you work Sunday?”

“Yes. At noon.”

“What time are you done?”

“Do you mean Saturday or Sunday?” I have no idea what he’s getting at.

He leans on the bar between us and lowers his voice. “Gracie Lou, when can I see you again?”

“What about the blonde?” I blurt.

His eyebrows come together, then slide back to neutral. His slow grin tells me what I need to know, but he says it aloud anyway. “I’m only interested in redheads now.”

Heat blooms on my cheeks and my shoulders melt. I’m inches away from swooning but manage to keep my cool.

“Gracie. When?”