A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(39)

“Is that a new bracelet?”

She chokes on her sip and then tugs down on her shirt. “Sometimes-boyfriend is getting more serious.” She smiles. “Next time I’m asking for diamonds.”

“Hope he’s worth it,” I say, undoing the tie on the bread, deciding that lunch for breakfast actually sounds pretty perfect.

“He’s not,” she says automatically, and then brings over the meat, slapping it down next to me. “Okay, so Abe is out. What about this other guy? I’m intensely curious about who can make Abe Weston go primal with jealousy.”

We start building our sandwiches, Lucy grabbing a steak knife to dig around in the jar of mayonnaise.

“He rides a motorcycle.”

“And you’re blushing already.” She bumps her shoulder into mine. “He must be sexy.”

“He’s very cute.”

“Elise,” Lucy says. “Cute guys don’t ride on motorcycles. Sexy guys do. Or old guys. I’m guessing he’s sexy, though, right?”

“So sexy.”

“Then I can’t wait to meet him.”

“You sort of have,” I tell her, biting into my sandwich. “He’s the one you almost ran over with your car the other day.”

The morning slips away as I get ready to meet Harlin, butterflies in my stomach. It’s too gloomy outside for a sundress, and I’m afraid a skirt will fly up if he takes me on his Harley. So I opt for soft jeans and a snug T-shirt. I twist my hair into a knot and dab on some of my sister’s perfume.

Lucy’s asleep when I pop my head in to ask if her car is fit to drive, so I snag her keys to try for myself. The Honda purrs to life as if it hadn’t had any trouble the night before, and I start toward Santo’s. I want to pick up my check before going out with Harlin.

The rain starts almost immediately, pelting the windshield with angry splashes. Lucy’s wipers can barely keep up.

When I pull into Santo’s, there are only a few cars in the parking lot. But no motorcycle. My heart dips until I see Harlin standing under the awning near the front door. I drive up to him, stopping as I roll down the passenger window.

“Why in the world are you waiting out here?” I call, my voice barely carrying over the rain.

His mouth stretches into a smile when he ducks down to see it’s me. “I’m not. I just got here. I didn’t want to ride my bike in the rain, so I hitchhiked. Interesting town you have here.”

“I bet it was an adventure.”

He points over his shoulder. “Should we grab some lunch first?”

“At Santo’s?” I cringe at the thought. Other than the fact that I’m entirely sick of Mexican food, Abe might be in there. And he might accidentally-on-purpose drop a plate of enchiladas into Harlin’s lap if we’re together.

“Bad idea?” Harlin asks.

“Think so.” We’re quiet for a second, and then I shrug. “We can go back to my house. I can make sandwiches.”

Harlin seems to think about it, as if he’s not sure it’s a good idea. But then he glances at the sky—at the rain—and climbs inside the car.

CHAPTER 17

Lucy?” I call when I open the front door. The house is quiet in response, and I glance back at Harlin. “No idea where my sister is,” I say.

“Nice place,” Harlin says as he walks in. “It’s big.”

“Really? It’s only three bedrooms.” Our house in Colorado had four, plus an office. But once my mother was gone, it always seemed too big without her in it. I swallow down the memory.

“You should see the apartment I live in,” Harlin says, examining a picture of me from middle school hanging on the wall. “Two bedrooms, three guys. It’s a disaster.”

I try to picture where Harlin comes from. I wonder what his bedroom is like, if he has paintings hanging on his wall. Portraits of girls he met in restaurants.

Harlin slips off his leather jacket, laying it over the arm of the sofa. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, the muscles of his arms filling out the sleeves. “I live with my older brothers,” he explains. “They’re slobs.”

I smile, thinking it’s sweet that he lives with his brothers. I’m curious about his parents, but it seems rude to ask. So instead I motion toward the kitchen. “Drink?”

He agrees and follows me, taking it all in as if truly curious about every aspect of my life. When I hand him a soda, our fingers touching once again, the smile that makes me melt returns to his lips. “So,” Harlin says, leaning against the tiled counter. “Where do you want to do it?”

Kitchen scissors are probably not the best choice for cutting hair, but they’re all I can find. I set up a chair in the middle of the room and wrap a striped towel over Harlin’s shoulders. I read once that it’s best to cut dry hair, so I stand behind him and use my comb to smooth a section. I hold it between my fingers and then trim off the ends without incident. Okay, so far so good.

I move to his side, my hip brushing his arm as I try to level the hair above his ear, but decide that’s too short and opt to keep it longer.

“How you doing up there?” Harlin asks, sounding amused. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“Shh, I’m trying to concentrate.”