Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(3)

To cope with the obvious sexual tension, we’ve devolved. She’s not interested in a stiff suit who watches CNN, and I can’t take her home. That means we can’t pound out the tension brewing between us in a marathon of sweaty, no-holds-barred sex, so instead we pick at each other like competing fowl.

Why can’t I take her home for a sex marathon, you ask? The short answer: self-preservation. The shallow answer: I don’t date redheads. I did once and decided never to go there again. DO NOT ATTEMPT may as well be tattooed across Grace’s smooth lower back. It’s not. I checked.

I’m not one of those guys who has a “type.” I understand that hair color does not the woman make. Let’s call it a preference. A component of the routine. It’s worked well for me, so why break stride?

As I think this, my eyes venture back to Grace. I never thought of myself as a superstitious guy, but for this “black cat” I’ll make an exception.

As fun as it would be to let her devour me like a praying mantis postcoitus, her brand of fiery excitement and unpredictability could disturb the smooth surface of my carefully maintained Zen. That I can’t allow. I play by my own set of rules and have for some time.

Call it a precaution that I only date blondes.

I’ll settle for skipping over the fun part of my and Grace’s relationship (sex) and bantering with her like a couple who are sick to death of each other. The problem is the banter is starting to feel a lot like foreplay, and her brand of seduction has the other girls I date paling in comparison. The last girl who shared my bed? Boring. Bo-ring.

Grace strikes me as a woman who couldn’t be boring if she tried—even if she were doing her taxes while attending a talk about investment logic for sustainability.

On second thought, I love numbers. I might find that kinky.

She struts by me again—she has to since my seat is in the dead middle of her bar—and I continue where I left off. “Where is your date taking you? Tell me it isn’t that jerk-off who wrote his phone number on the dollar bill.”

She flicks me a glance beneath a slick of black eyeliner that makes her irises appear an explosive shade of green. Or maybe it’s me who brings out that particular shade. I smile at the thought.

“Do you really think I’d date that guy?”

I don’t. She deserves better and we both know it.

“So. Where is your mystery date taking you?”

“Guess.” The catlike curve of her lips tells me she wants to play. I’m the mouse in this scenario, but what the hell? I’ll give chase.

“Domaine.” It’s the fanciest restaurant I can think of.

“Nope.” She pops her P and I watch her red mouth with a hint of jealousy for whatever louse she’s going out with tonight. I bet Gracie can kiss.

“So not a classy guy, then.” I take a drink of my Sam Adams and glance at the TV.

“If by ‘classy’ you mean uptight, no.” She surveys my suit and tie with a sneer. “Definitely not the business type.”

I smirk, plotting my comeback.

“You’re more a fan of the guy living in Mom’s basement, then? Is he taking you to a free concert at Bicentennial Park? Do you have to pay for your own drinks?”

A super slow blink precedes her comment: “Wrong again.”

She shakes her head, sending a rogue curl brushing one round, delicate cheek. I really like this look on her. Typically she wears her hair in big waves that brush her shoulders, but her curls are more pronounced today. And the way they move when she moves suggests they feel like silk.

Don’t go there.

“He lives alone,” she helpfully clarifies.

I narrow my eyes, trying to think of where to guess next. There are several options, but one stands out the most, and I don’t like it. At all.

“His house?” I grumble.

“Bingo!” She grins. “There’s nothing quite like a man who can cook, is there? I mean, unless it’s a man who knows what he’s doing”—she winks, black lashes hiding one clover green iris—“in the bedroom.” She wiggles away in a pair of black jeans hugging her ass. I grind my back teeth together. I bet every inch of her creamy, smooth skin tastes like cotton candy.

“I can cook,” I mumble as a surge of competitiveness rolls through me. I was the one who built a wall between Grace and me in the first place. It wasn’t too long ago that my buddy Vince and I were sitting here at this very bar and he told me to ask her out. Of course he had to know I wouldn’t. He assumed the obvious: redhead. But Grace’s hair color is an excuse.

It’s the rest of her that’s a risk.

Risk isn’t something I shy away from in business. My livelihood is the volatile vocation of stock analyst. I frown at my competing thoughts.

I watch Grace walk, the rhythmic sway of her hips and the gentle curve of her small shoulders producing infinite images of what she looks like out of her clothes and, say, on my lap.

She isn’t a safe risk. Something tells me if I took a shot with her, I’d ride her all the way down until I was hollow inside.

Been there. Done that. Don’t need a repeat.

“Be careful out there, Gracie Lou,” I call, but I keep my eyes on the screen overhead as the stocks scroll across the bottom. “Men are predators.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, Davis.” I like the way she says my name—in a familiar, warm way. There is something about her that suggests she’s fragile beneath her “I am woman” exterior.