Rascal (Rascals Book 1)(2)

Damn. The back of him was just as hot as the front, with those faded jeans cupping a perfect ass . . .

I was suddenly reminded exactly how long it had been since I had touched a guy’s butt, or a guy had touched mine. It had been a long, long time. No wonder I was staring at strangers in the drug store. I grabbed some more chocolate—a poor substitute for what I was now craving—and went to check out.

The line was long, so I entertained myself by checking email and scanning the headlines of the various tabloid magazines that lined the checkout line. All of them were talking about the recent engagement of a rock star to his childhood sweetheart. I might have considered it cute, if I believed that any of those stories had any truth to them.

I had been a romantic once. But then I turned four, and my dad walked out on my mom and me. Left us to start a new family with someone else. I found it hard to believe in true love after experiencing that.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t open to romance. Or sex. I was definitely open to sex. Unfortunately, my current life-work balance was leaning heavily on the side of work. Getting this job was the most important thing to me right now, and I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way.

Someone bumped into me from behind.

“Sorry about that,” a male voice said.

I knew who was standing there before I even turned around. It was him. The hot guy. Because, of course he was. And of course, he had a sexy voice.

I glanced back to confirm what I already knew. Yep. Hot Guy was standing there, looking delicious in plaid, his basket full of extremely masculine things like beer and peanuts. Was that beef jerky as well? He couldn’t have been more manly if he tried.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told him.

He smiled, and I was nearly blinded by a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. He had a dimple in his left cheek. Heat rushed downward, pooling between my legs. It had been a really, really long time since a guy had smiled at me like that.

Calm down, Alex, I told myself. He’s just some guy. Yes, he’s drop dead gorgeous, but is he any cuter than the rock star that just got engaged to his childhood sweetheart? No. Ok, maybe a little bit, yes. It had something to do with the plaid. How it made him look all touchable and cozy. But in a sexy way.

“You’re up,” he said.

I didn’t understand until he looked past me, and I realized that the line was gone and the cashier was waiting for me.

Feeling a little foolish, I hurried to the counter, putting my basket down.

Hot Guy followed me, and even though I now had my back to him, I could totally sense his presence. His sexy, manly presence.

The cashier was a bored-looking teen who started scanning my items and tossing them haphazardly into a bag. I was painfully aware of Hot Guy standing behind me, especially as the cashier got closer to the bottom of my basket where the most personal items were. I said a quick prayer that the pads and tampons would get rung up as quickly as the other items—too fast for anyone to really notice—but luck was not on my side that evening.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The cashier scanned the huge bag of pads over and over again, getting a harsh beep each time. Grabbing the intercom, he punched a few buttons and his voice came in loud and clear over the store speakers.

“Price check,” he said. “Price check on super-ultra-heavy-flow pads.”

I wanted to die.

I felt my face turn tomato red, and I pulled the collar of my light jacket up to try and hide it. I know, I know: periods shouldn’t be shameful, they’re a glorious part of womanhood (as my sixth grade Phys Ed teacher tried to tell us), but still, you just try being a glorious woman when a dude is screaming to the whole store about your super-heavy flow.

“Ultra-heavy-flow pads,” the cashier said again, trying to scan the next item.

Of course, it didn’t go through either.

“And a price check on super-absorbent tampons with applicator. Super-absorbent,” he repeated, just in case the entire state of Illinois hadn’t heard him. Hot Guy was standing a couple of feet away from me; there was no way he hadn’t heard that. If a sinkhole had opened up right there in front of me, I would have gladly disappeared into it.

Finally, the cashier got the correct prices on my ultra-heavy and super-absorbent items. Of course, when he finally rung everything up, my card refused to work. All I got were those same obnoxious beeps every time I tried.

“Come on!” a woman said from behind me, clearly annoyed at the delay.

Grabbing my purse, I pulled out the last two twenties I had and practically threw them at the cashier. He took his sweet time giving me change, as I hugged my bag to my chest. The minute the receipt was in my hand, I rushed out of the store, keeping my head down. I couldn’t risk a look back at the Hot Guy, because the last thing I wanted was for him to remember the face of the girl who was buying stuff for her period in front of him.

Not exactly the way I wanted to be remembered by anyone: Heavy flow and super absorbent. I should get a tattoo.

I detoured via the bank on my way home to restock on cash. As it turned out, my office was always chipping in for birthday cards and cakes, and even though my student loans didn’t leave much left over, I refused to be known as the office tightwad. The bank branch was closed, but they had one of those vestibules with ATMs, so I swiped my card and stepped inside—just as someone followed me.

I tensed.