Текст книги "Nice Girls Don't Ride"
Автор книги: Roni Loren
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 6 страниц)
Chapter 3
Monroe
This chick is going to kill me. I merge onto the highway, working hard to focus on the road, as Natalie’s hold on me goes spider-monkey tight. Her face is buried against my shoulder, and I can feel every damn curve of hers pressing along my back. And though I’d actually attempted to be decent when she’d gotten on the bike, I’d caught a glimpse anyway. Now all I can think about is the fact that she’s got fuck-me red panties on beneath that bring-a-guy-to-his-knees dress.
But she’s not my date, and I’m not going to be seeing those panties or anything else tonight. No, I’m just the idiot going ten miles out of my way to help a sexy redhead meet up with her jackass boyfriend.
I know better than this, know not to mess with girls like her. The look on her face when I’d first gotten out of the truck told me everything I needed to know. She doesn’t see me as a member of the same planet she inhabits. She’s one of those uppity chicks from Texas Methodist University—the school that cost almost as much a semester as I make in a year. In her eyes, I’m just the help.
Usually that would piss me off enough to tell someone to go to hell, but Natalie had gotten under my skin back at the shop. Something about her doesn’t seem as distant and polished as the other debutante rich girls I’ve come across. There’s a realness there, a vulnerable side, one that had cracked wide open when her boyfriend said he wasn’t coming to pick her up.
What a douche bag. Canceling on a girl on her birthday is bad enough, but if this guy bailed on her to take some other girl out . . . well, then he deserves whatever Natalie’s planning to dish out. Though, part of me wonders if she’ll react outwardly at all. Apparently, she’s highly concerned with being nice and non-psycho and non-high-maintenance. Where’s the fun in that?
I run in circles where girls don’t take that kind of shit lying down. Most of my female friends go with the scorched-earth philosophy if a dude does them wrong. Screw one over, and she’ll make you rue the fucking day. I’d seen more than one of my friends taken down after making a stupid mistake. It’s one reason why I steer clear of relationships and stick to the casual stuff. I don’t need the drama. I like my life simple: take my classes, do my job at my brother’s shop, and have a little fun in between. Perfect. But that doesn’t mean a woman who isn’t afraid to spar with me won’t turn my head. It’s what had captured my interest with Natalie up front—well, besides the legs on her; those had been hard to miss. But it’d been disappointing to see her yield to some boyfriend.
Nice girls. Yawn.
Though, I admit the “do you know how dangerous this thing is” bit pushed a button I didn’t know I had. That Miss Priss vibe she’s got going on kind of does it for me. It makes me want to get her dirty. Really, really dirty.
Images of all the things I’d like to do to her fill my brain as I exit the highway, and my dick goes hard against my zipper. I tighten my grip on my bike and try to rein in the X-rated thoughts before I look like some hard-up pervert. Thank God Natalie still has her face pressed to my back.
This is what I get for taking double shifts at the shop for the last few months. All work and no play has left me wound tight and sporting a hard-on for someone else’s girl. Pathetic. This is exactly why I can’t wait to head out for my summer trip. Open road. The beach. And no obligations but housesitting my buddy’s condo and taking in the view. Next week can’t come fast enough.
Before long, we pull onto the street Natalie requested, and I circle the block twice before finding a parking spot near the restaurant. I cut the engine and Natalie startles behind me, like she has no idea where we are.
She peels her grip from my T-shirt. “That was quick.”
“You kept your eyes closed the whole time, didn’t you?”
She climbs off my bike, pulls off the helmet, and gives me a sheepish grin. “Maybe.”
I shake my head then let my gaze trace over her windswept form. That wild red hair is killing me. “You missed a nice view of downtown when we drove in.”
She adjusts the neckline of her dress and hands me the helmet. “You can show me next time.”
“Next time, huh? You asking me out, princess?”
She presses her lips together. So prim. “That’s not what I meant. I was just saying it—”
“To be nice?” I ask, lifting a brow.
She catches my sarcasm and her eyes narrow. “I’m not that nice.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
She sighs and glances toward the restaurant, worry flickering over her features. “Well, I guess I’d better go in.”
“Want some backup?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s a mix-up and will turn out to be nothing.” But she’s still staring at the restaurant, looking like she’d rather eat a pile of rotten sushi than take another step.
“Too bad. I’m coming in with you anyway.” I climb off my bike. “And for the record, the make-out offer still stands.”
She turns to me, the tension on her face smoothing a bit. “Try it and you’ll see just how skilled I am at self-defense. Warning: they teach us to aim for the soft parts first.”
“Kinky.”
“But if you’re going to come anyway, fine. Just don’t say anything and let me handle it. Here”—she reaches forward and swipes her fingers along my cheek—“you’ve got grease.”
The warm touch jars me, and I have to fight not to grab her hand and keep it against me. When she pulls away, her fingertips are black.
“Hold on.” I grab the bandanna I keep folded and tucked in my back pocket and take her wrist, turning her hand palm up so I can clean her fingertips. “Can’t have a princess getting her hands dirty.”
Her eyes are fixed on what I’m doing, but she doesn’t say anything. And more importantly, she doesn’t pull away. When I’m done, I take a chance and don’t release her hand. I lace my fingers with hers and tug.
“What are you doing?”
“Let’s get this show on the road. What’s on the other side of those doors isn’t going to change no matter how long you stand here. Might as well see what’s what.”
She lets me pull her for a few steps, but when we reach the restaurant, she quickly tugs her hand back, that tight nervousness taking hold of her features again. “Remember, let me handle this.”
“You won’t even know I’m here.”
The door is opened for us, and we head into the swanky restaurant, soft Spanish music drifting around us. The whole place smells like smoked paprika and garlic. It’s an enticing smell, but I’ve heard this place is overrated and overpriced.
The host lifts her head from studying the list on the podium and offers Natalie a warm smile and me a crinkled brow. Jeans and a T-shirt aren’t acceptable attire here, but I’m not apologizing for my clothes. This is Texas. No restaurant should ban jeans.
“May I help you?” That, of course, is directed at Natalie.
“Yes, my boss Caleb Dewhurst is here, and he asked me to stop by and drop off a document he needed for his dinner meeting.”
“Oh, well, I can bring it to him.” The hostess holds out her hand.
“Actually,” Natalie says, patting her purse. “It’s a confidential document I have to deliver in person. You know how bosses are. It’ll only take a minute.”
The hostess smiles in that overly bright way that’s almost hard to look at. “Sure, not a problem.”
She scans the reservation list.
“He said he’d gotten a table on the terrace,” Natalie adds.
“Oh, perfect. Stephanie can lead you up there.” She points to a brunette who’s just returned to the stand.
“You’re the best,” Natalie says, all southern sweetness.
Natalie follows the woman, and I head that way, too. The hostess gives me another look as I pass, but she’s smart enough not to stop me and cause an unnecessary scene. I’ve learned in life that if you act like you’re supposed to be somewhere, most people let you stay.
I trail after Natalie up a set of stairs, my dread rising. For Natalie’s sake, I hope the dickhead boyfriend isn’t really here, that he’s given the reservation to a friend or something. Birthday Girl has already had a shitty enough day. But I have a feeling that’s not going to be the case. And I have a feeling Natalie knows that.
When we reach the rooftop terrace, the hostess leaves us to get back to her post downstairs. The minute she’s out of sight, Natalie scans the dining area then stiffens like someone has run a rod up the back of her dress. Uh-oh. I follow her laser gaze and find the table she’s honing in on. A guy with a too-neat haircut and a navy blue blazer is sharing a candlelit table with a blonde in a tight black dress. Appetizers and a bottle of wine are already on the table, and lover boy has his hand draped over the girl’s. He leans forward and kisses her. On the mouth. With a little tongue.
Damn. Douchebag status: confirmed. I called it. But I hate that I’m right on this one.
Natalie hasn’t moved a millimeter. I touch her elbow. “Hey—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says in a dangerously calm voice.
“Natalie, maybe we should—”
But she shakes off my touch. “Oh, no. This is gonna get handled.”
She stalks forward, heels clicking on the copper stained concrete. Shit. This isn’t going to be good. I stride after her, hoping to intercept, but she’s already two steps ahead of me, target in sight. She reaches the table and the boyfriend, Caleb, glances up. His smile freezes in place then sags like a wilting flower.
“Natalie?”
“Caleb,” she says, all poise and icy resolve.
“Oh, crap,” the blonde says, looking panicked. “This isn’t—”
Natalie’s attention swings to the girl. “This isn’t what, Rebecca? You just kissed my boyfriend. What exactly is it? A dental exam?”
The girl looks ready to crawl under the table. “I was just . . . thanking him for helping me pass my econ exam.”
Caleb stands, putting a tentative hand out. “Natalie, baby, it’s fine. Let’s not make this a big deal.”
The chatter around us quiets and heads are turning our way, which seems to make Dickhead supremely uncomfortable. He offers the onlookers a weak smile but comes off looking constipated.
“Not a big deal,” Natalie repeats, her voice rising and some of that stoic mask cracking. “Not a big deal.”
Her tone says it all. I can hear the detonation clock ticking down like on that TV show 24. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Exactly. You know you’re important to me.”
“Important,” Natalie repeats, as if testing out how the word rolls around her mouth.
“But, you know, we never really said we were exclusive, per se . . .” Caleb continues.
Boom! Bomb detonated.
The look on Natalie’s face morphs into quiet, seething rage. She reaches out for the lapels of Caleb’s jacket as if to smooth them. One, two strokes, totally chill, then she yanks him closer. The guy never sees it coming when her knee jabs upward.
I wince as the guy doubles over with a resounding groan. She hadn’t been kidding about going for the soft parts. But using the words per se in any context? The dude earned that knee to the nuts.
The other girl tries to come to Caleb’s rescue and sends an evil glare at Natalie. “Jesus, what is wrong with you? This isn’t the trailer park.”
Natalie’s expression is what I imagine a bull looks like when that red cape is waved. Wild, a little crazed. I kinda like it. And I’m not wrong; she’s ready to charge. Natalie plucks the bottle of wine off the table and steps around the girl’s abandoned chair. A big leather handbag hangs off it. Natalie opens the purse wide and pours.
The blonde screams some high-pitched primal shriek. “You bitch, that’s Coach!”
The girl launches herself at Natalie, nails bared, but I step in between them, blocking her attack. I catch her wrists and ease her arms down. “Back off, sweetheart.”
“And who the hell are you?” she demands, glaring and yanking out of my loose hold.
“Not your business.”
“The fuck it’s not,” Caleb says, his gaze going to Natalie. “You’re with Natalie, it’s my business.”
Natalie scoffs then sidles up next to me and grabs my hand. “He’s the guy who’s going to show me a good time on my birthday.”
Well, then. I school my expression into my poker face.
Caleb’s lip curls as he sizes me up. “Right. Who is he? Your cab driver? Or did you pick up a stray at the bus stop?”
My fist curls. I could take out this smarmy motherfucker with one swift right hook, but I manage to keep my control. Barely. I’d rather not spend the night in lockup.
Natalie looks to the girl, who’s back to having a hissy fit about her purse. “I won’t be home tonight. Touch any of my stuff, and I’ll call the cops.”
The girl is Natalie’s roommate? Ouch.
“Come on, Natalie, let’s not play this game,” Caleb says, moving closer. “You’re not going home with some stranger.”
“No?”
“No. You’re not like that.”
“I’m not, huh?” At that, she turns to stand in front of me. Our gazes collide for half a second and her eyes are . . . pleading for me to play along. Big, green, please-oh-please eyes. Like I could say no to that. Whatever she sees on my face she takes as consent because she reaches up and cups the back of my neck, dragging me down to her. I don’t resist when she presses her mouth to mine.
In fact, for a moment, I forget where we are and what’s going on because holy shit. She isn’t going for a peck; she’s jumping off the high dive and taking me with her. My hands lower to her hips, and I bring her up against me as she parts my lips, touches her tongue to mine, then strokes against it. Full, openmouthed assault. And I’m so totally down with this plan. Sign me up. Let’s do this.
Time seems to stop for long seconds as our tongues and lips tangle, and her fingers curl in my hair. My blood goes hot, and I have to remind myself that we’re in public and that I can’t grab her thighs and wrap her legs around me.
She pulls back with a soft gasp, leaving me blinking and a little stunned. Well, that hasn’t happened in a long time—a girl taking charge and leaving me speechless. I’m usually the one making the moves. But I’m definitely not complaining. She spins to face Dickhead again, and I keep my hands on her waist, unsure if I’m doing it to keep her steady or to keep me from tossing her over my shoulder and carrying her out of here caveman style.
Meanwhile, Caleb is doing an excellent impression of a fish, his mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out—the yuppie guppy. Finally, he seems to come back into himself. “You wanted to make me mad, fine. Mission accomplished. Now let’s go home.”
“I’m going home with him, not you,” Natalie says.
“For what? To prove some stupid point?”
“I don’t need to go home with him to prove a point. Apparently, I’ve been missing out on the benefits of our open relationship,” she says, her tone as sweet as Karo syrup. “I guess it’s happy birthday to me after all. Good-bye, Caleb.”
The staff has come up to intercept the disturbance, but Natalie’s already pulling me with her and striding for the stairs. Wide eyes follow our progress, but she doesn’t stop until we’re back on the sidewalk in front of my bike. Her proud shoulders sag instantly, and all the breath seems to wheeze out of her.
She puts her hands to her face. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I just did that. I am so sorry.”
I grin. “Well, I’m sure as hell not. Holy shit, woman.”
She peers up at me, wary. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Oh, too late, princess. I’ve got ideas. Lots of ideas. You don’t kiss a guy like that and expect him to forget it.”
“It was an act.” But her gaze flicks away and her cheeks go pink.
I lean against my bike. “It was hot as fuck. You can’t fake that.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
Ha. She wasn’t denying the hot as fuck part. “All right, how ’bout I make you a deal? I won’t sleep with you unless you ask me to.”
She snorts. “Would you like a sidecar for that ego of yours?”
“Come on, seriously. Putting aside the question of whether you’ll be able to resist my infinite charm or not, no one should spend her twenty-first birthday alone, especially after that spectacular throwdown upstairs. It’s time to celebrate.”
“No, it’s time to get a pint of ice cream and do an ugly cry. Because I guarantee you, as soon as this adrenaline wears off, it’s not gonna be pretty. You need to get out while the gettin’s good because it’s gonna be all snot and chick flicks in an hour.”
“No fucking way. This is not a tragedy. You just got rid of a dickbag boyfriend and a skank of a roommate. You, princess, are a free woman and the town is yours tonight. Plus, you told them you weren’t going home. You can’t lose that poker hand.”
She groans. “I had to add that part, didn’t I? God, I just want to curl up in bed.”
“No bed to go to except mine.”
“Opportunist.”
“Always.” I grab the helmet and put it in her hands. “But there’s another option besides finding a place to crash.”
She shoots me a suspicious look, but I can tell she’s working hard to keep it together. The girl has had the shit day of all shit days. And the minute she slows down, it’s going to take her down hard. So I know what my job needs to be.
“The other option is you don’t go to sleep at all.” I pull my phone from my pocket and show her the time. “It’s almost nine. Sun’ll be up in about ten hours.”
“Ten?” She cringes. “That seems like forever.”
“If you’re going to mope around, yes. But you know what they say about time flying. All we need to do is find something fun to do each hour. Then you can walk into your place looking like the badass wild girl you want them to think you are.”
She gives me a skeptical lift of her brow. “You want to spend the next ten hours with me? We don’t even like each other.”
Wrong. “I’m liking you better all the time, princess. Come on. Get on the bike. Hour one, I’ll take you to my favorite bar, and you can tell ’em it’s your twenty-first. Everyone will buy you a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“What about cake?”
“Cake?” She perks up a little. “What kind of cake?”
“The best cake.” I straddle the bike and pat the spot behind me. “Let’s ride, birthday girl. I want to get out of here before the cops arrive to charge you with death of a handbag and ball bashing.”
“No promises that I’m done with the ball bashing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She sighs, but I can tell I’ve won. Cake was the clincher. She eyes me for a moment longer then relents. “Fine.”
But before she can get on the bike, I take her hand and drag her close. Her leg brushes my thigh. She stiffens, almost as if bracing for another kiss—one I probably could take, based on the way she’s looking at me. But instead, I put my mouth close to her ear and whisper, “And don’t close your eyes this time. You’re missing all the good stuff.”
Chapter 4
Natalie
I manage to keep my eyes open for most of the ride since Monroe chooses side roads instead of getting back onto the interstate. I still hold on to him like my life depends on it—and I guess it does—but this time it’s less from fear of falling off and more about the fact that everything in my life feels like it’s crumbling around me, and holding on to something solid grounds me.
I can’t really process what’s happened. Every time I picture the cozy scene between Caleb and Rebecca, the anger rushes through me all over again, drowning me in rage. I’m sure I looked like a lunatic, kneeing Caleb, ruining Rebecca’s precious purse. Hello, Jerry Springer moment. But it was like all the little annoyances I’d tucked away throughout my relationship with Caleb had gathered together in a ball of crazy and exploded all at once.
It makes me sick to think I reacted like that. That’s my mother’s style—freaking out, making a spectacle. And she at least has the excuse of being drunk or blitzed on her pills when she has her outbursts. I acted like a psycho while stone-cold sober.
And the worst part is that it had felt so damn good to go off. Like my screwed-up genes had simply been waiting for me to go into drama-queen mode.
But regardless of how I must’ve looked, the whole thing might’ve been worth it just to see Caleb’s face after I kissed Monroe. I’d shocked him. And my boyfriend didn’t ruffle easily. Ex-boyfriend. I hope he’s still sitting at that table I reserved, completely distracted because he’s picturing what I’m doing with Monroe right now.
Because I know I planted that seed in his brain and then dumped fertilizer on it with my little show. The kiss hadn’t been sweet; it had bordered on obscene. It was definitely not how I usually kiss Caleb, and he knew it.
It had been a kiss that made me want things I shouldn’t, and I have a feeling my response hadn’t been a secret to any onlookers. Monroe had taken control halfway through the kiss, and in that moment, I’d sort of forgotten I was doing it for show. I’d lost myself. If he would’ve turned and pushed me against the nearby wall to keep things going, I probably would’ve let him.
So as we cruise along the roads of downtown Austin now, my mind replaying that kiss over and over again, the idea of a one-night stand is gaining some appeal. I’ve never had one of those. White trash girls get white trash reputations without even having to do the crime. In eighth grade, I wore red lipstick to school one day and had gotten called a whore for it. So after getting the hell out of my nowhere Oklahoma town for college, I’d honed my image and my behavior so that no one could ever make those kinds of assumptions about me again.
But I’m almost out of college now, a grown woman. And I like sex, dammit. Shouldn’t I be able to have it with who I want, when I want, even if it isn’t with someone I plan to have a long-term relationship with? The answer is obviously yes. And Monroe would probably be the perfect candidate. He’s made it clear that he’ll scratch that bad-boy itch if I have one. And he sure as hell won’t be the type trying to send me flowers tomorrow.
Hot sex with a stranger. It would be so very un-me. Which is exactly what I need right now. I want to leave that girl who has a cheating boyfriend, a conniving roommate, and broken-down car behind at the curb outside that restaurant. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.
But even with all that, I know I’m not going to sleep with Monroe.
Because there’s one line I can’t talk myself into crossing. If I ever have a one-night stand, I want it to be about me and the guy. Not because I’m trying to prove a point or get revenge or soothe my wounded pride. No one deserves to be used like that, even if he’s a willing victim.
So I’ll go have cake with Monroe, thank him for trying to cheer me up, and then I’ll suck up my pride and go home. Let Rebecca have her laugh at my expense. I’ll survive. I’ve dealt with meaner girls than her.
The bike slows as we cruise down a road lined with eclectic shops and a few bars—South Congress, I realize. Or SoCo, as most people refer to it around here. This is the part of town where the city keeps its Keep Austin Weird motto going strong. Caleb has always hated it, declaring that this was Texas, not California. But there’s one breakfast place a few streets over that he likes enough to brave the “hippy and hipster” zone on occasion.
Monroe parks in a lot between buildings and helps me off the bike. Before I can ask where we’re going, he clasps my hand and guides me around a building and toward another parking lot. This one has lights strung everywhere and colorful picnic benches half packed with people. Food trucks line the edges of the lot, and a guy with a guitar is playing in the front corner.
My stomach growls at the combination of smells drifting from the lot—funnel cake, tacos, bacon. All the happy food groups. “I think my stomach just realized I never fed it dinner.”
“You and me both. Some high-maintenance chick kept me late at work and made me skip dinner.” I poke him in his side and he laughs. “Come on, let’s not live by cake alone. That bright orange truck over there has these Korean pork sandwiches that are so addictive I’m convinced they’re laced with crack. And we’ll need to grab a fish taco from Bueno’s. And then I know the girl who owns Sweet Revenge, the silver one over there. She will give us the cake hookup.”
His enthusiasm is so open it almost looks out of place on him—biker dude getting excited about cake. But I find myself smiling back. “A closet foodie?”
“Closet culinary student.”
My brows lift. “I never would’ve guessed.”
“That’s because you’re wildly judgmental and put me in the box of former convict or potential meth dealer the minute you saw me.”
“Riiight, says he who has called me sorority girl and princess nonstop.”
“Fine. Are you or have you ever been in a sorority?”
My lips press together. I don’t want to answer, but I know he’s not going to let me off the hook. “It was only freshman year—”
“Ha!” he says, and tugs me further into the lot.
“But I’m no princess. No fairy godmother ever saved me from anything, there’s no inheritance waiting, and my prince just ditched me for a girl who thinks keeping up with the Kardashians is a solid life goal.”
He slows down at that and I bump into him. The humor in his expression softens into something more serious. “That asshole was not a prince. He’s a punk. The way he talked to you . . . like he wanted to manage you. Like you were a task on his Day Planner to handle. Fuck that. I’ve known you for three hours and know better than to try that shit with you. You’d castrate me.”
I blink, a little stunned at his spot-on assessment of how Caleb talks to me. I’ve never put it in those terms, but manage is the exact right word. And I’d let him. Maybe part of me had felt like I needed to be managed, like he’d lead me to some holy grail of fitting in with the “right” people.
“That dude was more concerned about what a dining room of strangers was thinking than he was about what you were feeling. If he really cared about you, he should’ve gotten on his knees and begged you to forgive him for being such a dick. But no, he tried to make you feel stupid and put you down instead. Your fairy godmother did show up tonight—with blonde hair, a fake tan, and a designer bag. She saved you from continuing that bullshit. You deserve better than being some guy’s Stepford girlfriend. Let Blondie take on that job.”
I can feel my eyes filling up, my emotions, which are already running high, trying to spill over because now I’m embarrassed. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
His brows scrunch. “What? How did you get that out of what I just said?”
“He’s a jerk, but I was stupid enough to stay with him.”
Monroe groans and releases my hand. “Stay right here.”
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he heads toward the guy who’s been playing guitar.
I panic, frozen for a moment, and then hurry after him. But my heels slow me down and by the time I get there, he’s already talking to the man and taking the microphone from him. What the hell? Monroe plants his Chuck Taylor on a nearby bench and propels himself up and onto the picnic table.
“Attention, everyone!”
I’m at the edge of the table now, ready to pull him down by the pant leg if necessary, but everyone is turning our way. “What are you doing?”
He smiles down at me but doesn’t answer, just gives me the one moment motion with his finger. He looks out at the crowd again. “Listen up, today is my friend Natalie’s twenty-first birthday.”
“Oh my God.” Where’s a shovel so I can dig a hole in the dirt and crawl in? I try to scoot into the shadows.
“No one has sung to her yet. She’s had no cake. And worse, no alcohol. In fact, so far today she’s survived being broken down on the side of the road in the heat, has caught her boyfriend cheating and knocked that boyfriend’s nuts into his throat in public, and turned the purse of the chick he was with into a designer punch bowl.”
Eyes swivel toward me. I want to die. But someone claps, and there’s a You go, girl from an elderly lady at a nearby table. That makes me smile.
“And yet she still looks this hot after all that,” Monroe declares.
A wolf whistle comes from someone on the far side of the lot. I laugh and put my hand over my face.
“So”—Monroe raises his hand in a mock toast despite having no drink—“happy birthday to Natalie, one badass bitch!”
The crowd toasts back and then the guy with the guitar starts a rendition of Happy Birthday. A chorus of diners serenades me.
Monroe hops down from the table, singing along with them and grinning. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nat-a-lie . . .” He leans over. “So, in answer to your question, no, I don’t think you’re an idiot.”
My hands go to my hips, and I give him my are-you-out-of-your-mind face. But I can’t help the swell of emotion that comes from the simple act of being sung to by a large group of people. There’s some weird power in that. I never really had birthday parties—even as a kid. Mom wasn’t organized enough to put something together. So I’d get a few presents and a trip to McDonald’s with my cousins. This is so much better.
I close my eyes. Because I will not cry, dammit. “If you think this is going to get me to kiss you again, prepare to be disappointed.”
“As if I would have ulterior motives,” he says, and I open my eyes to find him watching me with an amused expression.
And son of a bitch, I do want to kiss him. Because he looks so damn good standing there. Because unlike Caleb, he isn’t afraid to look silly in front of other people. Because he called me a badass and meant it.
I make a sound of frustration. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”
I step into his space, and I’m not sure who kisses who first. All I know is that before the birthday song ends, his hand is in my hair and his lips are on mine and my body is melting against his.
My lips part and his tongue is stroking mine, devouring any remaining resistance. Hungry sounds escape me, and my fingers seek something to hold on to, eventually knotting in his T-shirt. There’s a frantic edge to both our movements, like we don’t know which way to go next, like we want to do everything all at once. We’re going to bump noses; I know it. But somehow we work it all out. His hands slide to my waist, and I’m pushing onto my toes. My arms loop around his neck, and we’re kissing, kissing, kissing.
Somewhere in the background people are clapping and catcalling. And finally my mind registers where we are. There are people. We’re being watched. I break away with a panting breath. My cheeks are on fire, and I press my face into his shoulder. “Oh my God.”
