Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(9)

“You approached. I asked.” He shrugs. “Those were the terms.”

“I-I didn’t approach you.” I don’t want to date Davis. I don’t like Davis.

“You leaned in and said, ‘Two hundred if she’s a redhead.’ Gracie, that is an approach.” He winks and that blush warming my neck burns into rage.

“I meant to challenge you,” I growl.

He gives me a curt nod and folds his hands like an executive at a desk. “Challenge accepted.”

His handsome face is scarily sincere.

“You have three Davis packages from which to choose.” He ticks them off using his fingers. “The Davis. The Davis Deluxe. The Platinum Davis.”

“You’re making this up.” Isn’t he?

“The Davis,” he continues, “is standard for any date save one detail.”

“Which is?” I fold my arms, still not buying it. What kind of guy offers dating packages, other than an escort?

“Hold the eggplant.”

He’s not laughing with me.

“Not literally. ‘Hold’ in this scenario means no holding. You can’t touch me below the belt.”

My gosh. He is an escort.

“You need to make that distinction, do you?” I hoist a brow and try to appear like I’m not thinking about what Davis’s…eggplant…might look like. Like I’m not thinking about how many women bypassed that option because they were glad to touch it. “Why an eggplant?”

“Well, it used to be ‘Hold the pickle,’ but then the eggplant emoji gained popularity. I had to update.”

“Ah, I see. So sexting is part of the basic package?”

“No, that’s the deluxe,” he says so sincerely that I’m beginning to believe him. “Sexting is a substantial time requirement.”

“You’re insane,” I titter on a nervous laugh. At least the heat is receding from my face now.

“I’m efficient. Which package would you prefer, Grace?” Something seductive slides into his voice. Even during this bizarre conversation, that same charge sizzles in the air.

“Unless you’re chicken,” he says, easing us onto familiar ground.

“I’m the one who issued the bet,” I remind him. “I’m certainly not afraid of you or your…packages.”

I kind of am, though. I just explained to Rox why I wasn’t dating. But maybe…I mean, there’s no way Davis will stick around for more than one date, so what’s the harm?

“Prove it,” he says. “When’s your next day off?”

My throat is so dry I have to swallow before I can formulate an answer. “Thursday.”

Am I really doing this? At some point our banter slipped off the tracks and we entered The Twilight Zone.

“Thursday.” He tosses a few bills on the bar to pay for his beer. “Decide which package you want before then and send me a text.”

“With or without an eggplant emoji?” I smirk.

He leans across the bar, grabs a pen from a cup, and jots his phone number on one of the dollar bills. I flick my eyes to his lips and for one insane second imagine what his firm, full mouth might feel like against mine.

Incredible, I imagine.

“That’s up to you.” He backs away. Without turning, he says, “Include your address with the text. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

I stare at his phone number on the dollar bill and consider texting him.

Damn.

This might be the first time in the history of the world the ole phone-number-on-a-dollar pickup worked.





Davis


I know, I know. I made a lot of noise about not going out with Gracie. I alluded to a past that traumatized me enough that I swore off excitement forever.

But then I got competitive and that old adage “Always leave ’em wanting more” had me drop-kicking the ball into Grace’s court.

There is a problem with that adage in this case, though. I’m the one who was left wanting. I’ve avoided McGreevy’s the last two days to force Grace’s hand. If she didn’t see me, she’d have to text me. Part of my brilliant plan was also that she wouldn’t be tempted to take back her yes.

Today’s Thursday and she hasn’t texted.

I shouldn’t care that she hasn’t texted.

At the gym, I finish one last bicep curl and rest my elbows on my knees, blowing out a slow breath. My mind goes to work and loops my mental to-do list until a voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Hey, stranger.”

Slowly I raise my head. I’m confronted by a smooth blond ponytail, caramel brown eyes, and legs that go for miles.

“Hi.”

She gives me a tight-lipped smile. I get this look a lot. “You don’t remember me.”

“Not true.” I stand and place the weights on the rack. “You and I went to the Ale Fest together over the summer. You like ciders, hate IPAs”—I turn and snag my towel from the bench I was sitting on—“and your favorite color is green.”

She laughs—which is my intended response. I don’t remember her favorite color or if she told me what it was.

“It’s purple.” She gestures to her purple spandex shorts. I should have known. “I haven’t seen you around.”