Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(4)

She continues stacking glasses upside down on the shelf at the back of the bar, her voice going hard. “You should know better than anyone that I can handle myself.”

I do know that. I’ve seen her thwart many an advance. She’s good at it, and typically the bonehead trying to take her home doesn’t realize he’s getting a professional brush-off. Sometimes she uses the boyfriend excuse; other times she changes the subject so swiftly the dolt doesn’t know what hit him.

One hour later, I’m wondering which blow-off she’ll deliver to the braying jackass a foot from my right elbow.

“Gracie Lou,” I interrupt, waggling my empty bottle.

She’s leaning on the bar, cleavage between two perfect C-cups on display. She slides me a glance before returning her attention to the blocky guy standing in front of her. I don’t care that she’s flirting, but I don’t like being second place to a man of such low caliber.

“Gracie Lou. That’s a pretty name,” the jackass tells her, his hands gripping the bar.

“Just Grace.”

“Okay, Just Grace. I’m Just Tim.”

Of course he is. What a fucking moron. My hand tightens around the empty bottle.

“I have a bet with my pals over there”—he gestures to the dartboards, where three chinos-and-button-downs stand with their fancy IPAs in hand—“that you can tie a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue.”

“You don’t say.” Grace’s eyes flash the subtlest warning, but Tim doesn’t pick up on it.

“I say you can, and they say you can’t. If you can, and you show me right now, I’ll go over there, collect my winnings, and split them with you fifty-fifty.”

Another glance at his buddies tells me he’s lying. They’re not watching him at all, which means there’s no such bet and Tim is an asshole. Grace tilts her head as if she’s considering, but her eyes flick back to his pals. She’s figured out the same thing I have. I smother a smile with the mouth of my beer bottle and turn my attention to the TV.

Tim leans in and drops his voice, which I assume is an effort to increase his sex appeal. “There’s an even bigger tip in it for you if you do it nice and slow.”

All right. That’s it.

I’m off my barstool so fast, Tim doesn’t see me coming. He rocks in place, leaning away from my height, though he’s got me in width.

“How about she ties your dick into a knot and I’ll double whatever you’re offering?” I say, unable to take his jackassery any longer.

Tim holds both hands in front of him as a shaky smile finds his mouth. “Hey, buddy, I didn’t know she was your girl.”

I don’t confirm or deny, but I do lean closer, hovering over him until he gets my point.

“Grace, my apologies.” Tim clears his throat and tries to ignore me, which he finds challenging since I’m invading his personal space. “Just the drinks, then.”

She uncaps two bottles and he hands her a twenty-dollar bill, which Grace stuffs into the cash register, coming out with eight dollars in change. She puts the cash on the bar in front of him. Tim shifts away as he takes his beers and wisely mutters, “Keep it,” before hustling back to his friends.

I earn a smile from Grace for my bravery. We lock eyes for a lingering moment, which makes every second of that interaction worth it. When she blinks, I return to my seat. “Now can I have my beer?”

“I didn’t know I was your girl either.” Grace chuckles and serves me another Sam Adams. “I could’ve handled him.”

“The sooner he went away, the sooner I could get a refill,” I explain as I tip the bottle to my lips.

Her coy smile suggests she knows my refill wasn’t the only thing on my mind. Part of me has started to think of Grace as mine—at least in a superficial sense.

I fix my eyes on the TV, not giving her confirmation that she’s figured me out.

“Thanks, Davis.” I hear the smile in her voice.

I wait until she walks to the other end of the bar to reply.

“You’re welcome, Gracie.”





Chapter 2


Davis


It’s a good day to make a lot of money.

I straighten my tie and pull on my suit jacket, checking my reflection once more in the mirror to ensure I’m put together. Face cleanly shaven, check. Suit pressed into sharp lines, check.

Do I have to suit up to work in my home office? No. I could ride the couch commando if I wanted to. Listen up and I’ll give you a little Work from Home 101, free of charge. If you dress like a slob, the guy on the other end of the phone or email can sense it. I didn’t get to the top of my company by being perceived as lazy. Would you give me your millions if I slouched into my office in Superman pajama pants?

No. Of course not.

Downstairs I prep my espresso while toasting an English muffin. My standard breakfast lately consists of a whole-wheat English muffin and two boiled eggs, espresso, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. It’s a bit of a rut, I suppose, but it’s simple and I can spend my morning thinking strategy instead of meal planning.

I’m a routine guy, yes, but I mix it up on occasion. Like I said, I can cook. My Belgian waffles, much like my skills in the bedroom, are moan worthy.

After breakfast, I have a date with the stock market. She’s a wily serpent, but at least she’s reliable. I can count on that bell to ding, telling me she’s open, and then another to tell me when she’s closed, and those are the hours I keep.