America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(68)

“This guy bothering you?” Lavoie asks.

“No,” she assures him with a smile. “He’s very good company. And harmless.”

“I am not harmless,” I object. “I can kick your ass in Pac-Man.”

Murphy looks at me again with his dark green gaze. “You learn your lesson about talking to women yet, or do we need to step outside?”

“Stop,” Sarah says. “He’s definitely learned his lesson. He even just offered to let me have his car. He’s very, very sorry. And his mother chewed him out and apologized on his behalf too. Sorry, bud, but you can’t touch that.”

Nick’s brow furrows. “Yeah, I got a mom like that. Except I never fuck up.”

“Dude,” Lavoie mutters. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Hey, I wouldn’t tweet that shit to my sister or any other woman.”

“Just to your sister’s exes,” Lavoie supplies.

“I’m avenging the fucking world.” He points at me. “And that’s my sister about to go up on stage, so you better laugh your ass off. But only at the right spots. And don’t even think of tweeting anything about her. Anything. Even anything good. I’ll be watching you.”

My bodyguards are useless.

Or possibly they’re enjoying this.

Hard to tell. But I’d be enjoying this if I were them.

“Can I get a picture?” Sarah asks. “My friend Mackenzie loves the Fireballs first and foremost, but the Thrusters are her second favorite.”

“Distantly,” I add. Helpfully.

Sarah grins, and these two hockey players have clearly taken one too many pucks to the head, because neither of them falls at her feet and worships her just for that gorgeous sight.

“Well, yeah, but they’re still second,” Sarah agrees.

“You haven’t asked for a picture with me,” I point out.

“Oh, I think I have a lot more than a picture with you.” She tosses me another smile that hits me so hard in the chest that I almost fall out of my chair.

Or maybe that was a server tripping over the chair leg.

Possibly on purpose while trying to hit me in the head with a serving tray.

But still.

I feel that smile all the way to my bones.

And not just the boner growing harder with every passing second behind my fly.

The server delivers Sarah’s drink and milkshake and a complimentary basket of fried pickles while they’re taking pictures. After Sarah texts Mackenzie, Murphy gives me the same double-fingered I’m watching you point that Judson got me with before we left Sarah’s house.

“Laughing. You. In the right spots. Off Twitter. Got it?”

“I giggle when I’m nervous,” I tell him, which makes Sarah snort sweet tea out her nose. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Here.” I lunge for napkins and dab at her nose and mouth, which are fuck, so pretty.

How in the world has she hidden this long?

“I’m okay,” she sputters around a laugh. “Thank you.”

After making sure I’m not going to accidentally kill her, Murphy and Lavoie leave us alone.

But they sit close all through open mic night.

Which is so-so, except for the ventriloquist, who’s fucking hilarious, and not just because Nick Murphy will kick my ass if I don’t think so and laugh in all the right places. That goat puppet she’s using reminds me of Wyatt. Totally straight-laced.

Which I think makes me the cat puppet named Lucy, which is a little awkward, but I can deal with feeling a kinship with a cat puppet.

Sarah shares all of her food with me, our chairs pressed tight together so I can loop one arm around her the whole night, because I’m having fingergasms just from touching her, and by the time the show’s over and every last amateur comedian and comedienne have had their turns, the photographers lurking across the room have gotten an endless supply of good shots of Sarah and me enjoying the show.

And I’m pissed.

Because she should be able to go out and enjoy a comedy club without knowing that her every move is being watched and scrutinized by the world.

“We need to call this off,” I tell her when we’re back in my car, headed for my building. Security can sneak her out in an unmarked car from there.

“What? Why?”

“Because I don’t like those assholes taking pictures of you.”

She watches me as we pull into my parking garage and I take the hard left to head into my private underground garage behind the lift door that most people assume is for deliveries.

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” she finally says as I’m parking. “I did some selective googling at work today. Donations to animal conservation projects are up twenty percent this week.”

I want to be fucking up twenty percent. With her.

But I’m also the moron who just told her we needed to call this off, and fuck, she probably thinks I mean all of us.

“I could make two phone calls and get that tripled and you wouldn’t have to smile for another camera in your entire life.”

“I like making a difference.” Her cheeks start to go splotchy, and I can’t help tracing the uneven edges of red in her cheeks. “I care,” she whispers. “People can see it. And that means more than Levi Wilson or Cash Rivers giving it lip service.”