Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(7)
“Fine! All right!” I laugh as I shake her off my flannel. “There is a guy who’s one of my regulars at McGreevy’s, but,” I add when her eyes light up, “he’s a man whore and we don’t like each other.”
“So he’s hot.”
“He’s gorgeous.” I can’t lie any more than I can prevent the sigh from lining my voice. “Hence the man-whore thing. Unfortunately, he’s working his way down a sexual bucket list of blondes, so”—I gesture to my red hair—“not his type.”
It’s a total blow-off, but Rox lets me have it.
“Honey, I can make you blond.” Her eyes narrow as she considers. “We’d have to do it in three different sessions and wait a few weeks in between color lifts. Otherwise you’ll have so much breakage—”
“Rox. No.”
She sighs. “Does he have a friend?”
“He has a very attractive friend.”
Roxanne gasps.
“Vince recently, and happily, hooked up with one of the cutest brunettes I’ve ever seen.” Not to mention that Jackie is sweet and funny and, from what I’ve observed, the perfect match for him.
“Well. Shit.”
“I know.” I throw my arms into the air dramatically. “I’m hopeless.”
Rox is laughing. She knows I’m kidding. I never needed a man in my life to define me. “Change so we can go. I want to pick out an outfit to match my masterpiece.”
Her “masterpiece” is my hair. She wants me in new clothes to complement the new cut and color. I pull the flannel shirt off and toss it next to the accordion doors hiding my washer and dryer before taking the stairs to my bedroom.
“I have to be able to wear it to work tonight!” I call as I pull on a clean shirt. “No party dresses or four-inch stilettos allowed!”
She chimes in that she knows better and then starts in on how she thinks I’d look good in an emerald green floor-length gown.
My laughter ebbs as I picture it: me sashaying in wearing sequins and heels and Davis’s jaw dropping to the floor.
I bite my lip in consideration. There he is in my fantasies again.
Now, how did that happen?
Chapter 3
Grace
I recognize the tiny blonde approaching my bar.
Last night Davis sidled up to her and bought her a buttery nipple. I poured it. She’s young—college age maybe?—and more dishwater than platinum, but she’s a blonde. Evidently Davis’s latest flavor of the week has come back for a refill.
And I don’t mean on her drink.
She missed Davis by seconds. He’s in the bathroom. His beer is sitting in its usual spot. The blonde eyes the bottle of Sam Adams, and then the facedown cellphone like she’s debating picking it up and checking the screen.
She flashes me a nervous smile, then looks around as if Davis were simply waiting off to the side to surprise her. Movement catches my eye in the back of the room. Davis steps out of the bathroom, well within my range of vision but too far over the blonde’s shoulder for her to notice him. He notices her, though.
He takes three steps, spots her, and freezes like he’s doing his own personal mannequin challenge. He gestures to me, slicing the air with both arms like he’s a ref calling an incomplete pass. This is one particular blonde he’s not looking forward to running into today.
Oh, Davis.
“Men. They’d forget their heads if they weren’t attached to their necks,” I say to the blonde as I pick up the phone. Waggling it at her, I comment, “Do you know how many cellphones are left here each week?”
“No.” She blinks big blue eyes. Poor thing. I almost feel sorry for her…but not quite. “Davis usually sits here, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” I tell her, plastering a smile onto my face.
There was a time I would’ve sold him out. Pointed over her shoulder and told her he was avoiding her because he changes girlfriends like he changes underwear. Today I’m disinclined to give her a chance to sink her hooks into him.
I don’t know why. Maybe for the same reason that Davis swooped in to save me from the cherry-stem guy.
“The next time you see him, can you tell him that Heather stopped by?” she asks.
“Sorry.” I allow sympathy to color my features. “I can’t.”
This confuses her, if the pleat separating her thinly plucked eyebrows is any indication. She fiddles with the strap on her purse.
“We went out,” she continues explaining, “but…I don’t have his number.”
Because he didn’t want you to have it, hussy, I think but don’t say. I’m definitely territorial today. This is my bar. I don’t want hussies in my establishment.
I lean toward her as if conspiring. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Davis lean in too, one hand out as if to keep me from blowing his cover.
“If I passed on every message from every pretty girl who’s upset with Davis, Heather, I’d have to quit bartending and make that my full-time job.” I pat her hand because she’s not taking this news well. “Would you like a word of advice from a girl who’s been used by a guy like him?”
She nods slowly. Reluctantly.
“Cut your losses. The sex isn’t worth it and it only gets worse.”