Better With You, page 2
I huff a laugh and roll my eyes.
“Of course not.” He chuckles. “I’ll let you buy it first. You can buy it and put it in your car, and then give me your number.”
I pretend to think it over.
“If we do it that way, you’ll stay on the sidewalk until I’ve secured the vanilla, and then I’ll shout my number to you.”
He laughs, giving an amused shake of the head before nodding his agreement. “Deal. Shake on it?”
He sticks out his hand, and I narrow my eyes at it. Then I meet his gaze, pop a brow, and slowly reach out to take it.
It’s warm and calloused. His grip is firm, but not crushing, and I have a feeling his hands could do some serious damage if he wanted them to. The thought sends a spark of lust through me. The way his eyes flash with heat tells me he noticed, so I drop his hand and head to the check out.
He follows me out the door, the bottle of vanilla and the store receipt clutched in my hand. When we’re on the sidewalk, I turn around.
“You stay here,” I remind him, pointing to the sidewalk where his feet are planted. “No moving.”
“Cross my heart.” He uses his index finger to draw an X on his chest, and I have to hold back my smile at how serious he looks.
I take my first few steps backward, keeping my eyes on him, until I’m a safe distance away. Then I pivot on the ball of my foot and sashay to my bike. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I might not have much by way of hips, but what I do have, I know how to work. When I reach Baby, I put the vanilla and my purse in the saddle bag, unlock my helmet, then turn back around to face the attractive almost-thief. I lean on my bike lightly and smirk at his shocked expression.
People never expect me to be riding a motorcycle. It’s one of the reasons I love it.
We stare at each other for a moment, me with my smirk and him with his wide, surprised eyes. The connection creates sparks, even with a parking lot between us, and I have to breathe slowly to steady my heartbeat.
“Is the package secure?” he shouts from the curb, and I reach down and pat the saddlebag.
“Snug as a bug in a rug.”
“Okay. I held up my end of the bargain. It’s your turn to hold up yours.”
“Hmmm, what was my end, again?” I cock my head to the side and watch as he grabs the back of his neck and smiles at the ground. It’s so boyishly adorable, so magnetic, that I kind of hate him a little. This guy is dangerous.
“Your number,” he reminds me.
“Oh yeah,” I say with a grin. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one?” His handsome face scrunches up in confusion.
“Thirty-one.” I stifle a giggle.
“Thirty-one is not your phone number.”
“It’s not,” I respond slowly. “But you didn’t specify what number you wanted.” I shrug. “Thirty-one is the number you get.”
As I swing my leg over my bike, I hear his rumbling laugh again. I’m just about to push my helmet on my head when he calls out.
“Sundance! Hey, Sundance,” he shouts, and I can’t help the huge smile that stretches over my face. That scoundrel said he didn’t know Butch Cassidy, and here he is calling me Sundance. “I didn’t get your name.”
I look at him, smile wide, and roll my eyes. “Bummer for you.”
Then I shove my helmet on my head, rev Baby to life, and cruise out of the parking lot without a backward glance.
When I get back to my apartment, it’s past one in the morning, and I have a 9:30 a.m. class tomorrow. Ivy is probably asleep, so I move silently toward the kitchen. I put the vanilla in the cupboard and take a minute to admire it on the shelf. It’s such a luxury. Makes me feel rich for a hot minute.
I flip off the kitchen light and walk to the sliding doors to our small balcony. I gaze longingly at my wicker bowl chair. I had plans tonight that included that chair, my new romance novel, and a glass of wine. Two of my favorite things: sexy romance novels and wine. Romance in real life, not my jam. But romance in books? Fricken love it.
If I hadn’t been called in to work, and then gotten distracted by the sexy stranger with the Harry Styles hair, I’d probably would have been able to bust out maybe half the book. Definitely would have gotten some dick. Fictional dick, but that’s usually better anyway.
I smile at the thought of my convenience store thief, Butch Cassidy, and my chest warms. That was an ‘in real life meet-cute’ if I’ve ever seen one. I didn’t think that shit actually happened outside of books and movies. I guess forfeiting a few chapters of contemporary romance to flirt with the hot guy in the baking aisle isn’t a big deal.
In my bedroom, I take out the cash I made tonight and divide it up. Fifty bucks is pretty decent for a Wednesday night. I put forty of it back in my wallet to be deposited in my bank account to help cover usual expenses, and I take the remaining ten and shove it into the Crisco can I keep in the back of my closet. I update the total on the pink sticky note inside the can and scowl at it. I’ve been saving for six months, and it’s like I’ve barely made a dent in my goal. I’m hoping the promotion at work will help, but it’s still taking too long. The sense of urgency, of guilt, is overwhelming.
It’s been almost three years, already. Not for the first time, I curse myself for not starting sooner. For not thinking of it sooner.
If I can win this cookie contest... That two grand would be a game changer. I could make my deadline. He deserves at least that.
I have to win this contest. I kiss my fingers, press them to my chest, just over my heart, and murmur a promise. I will win this contest.
I shove the Crisco can back into my closet, grab a sleepshirt, and head into the bathroom that I share with Ivy. I need to scrub the bar smell from my body before I crash into bed. Then it’s another day of classes and experimental baking.
Hopefully I can squeeze some fic-dick in there, too.
At least I don’t have to work again until Saturday.
By the time Saturday evening rolls around, I’ve almost forgotten about the baking-aisle boy.
I did think I saw someone similar on campus yesterday, and once Thursday I thought I heard his laugh on the quad. But, otherwise, he’s just a fuzzy image, fading from my short-term memory, never to be fantasized about again.
Saturday nights at Bar 31 are always hopping. I’m closing tonight, so I can make a cool $200 at least, and it will be easy money. Rum and Cokes, Vodka Cranberries, and way too many Jägerbombs.
College kids and our distinguished pallets. Ha.
Around 1 a.m., thirty minutes before I get to climb on a stool and shout LAST CALL into the bar microphone, a familiar hand slides into my line of sight.
A sexy hand.
With woven bracelets tied to a thick wrist.
I allow myself one small smirk before meeting his chocolate brown eyes.
“You found me,” I shout over the music and crowd noise.
“I did. It wasn’t too hard. I’ve been in here every night since Thursday.”
I fight a smile. “So, you’re a stalker as well as a thief.”
His smile is immediate, his perfectly straight teeth on display.
“We’ve established I’m not a thief. And I consider myself more an investigator than a stalker. You told me thirty-one. I solved the riddle.”
I nod. Gotta admit, his determination is hot.
“Does this earn me your phone number?”
His voice is quieter, no longer shouting over the noise, because we’ve somehow gravitated toward each other. I’m leaning over the ice chest, him over the bar top, and we’re mere inches apart. I take a moment to study him. Thick eyebrows, thick lashes, thick lips. I wonder what else on him is thick...
A guy to my left is waving his card at me, so I give a “hold that thought” finger to the attractive man monopolizing my time and head to make a drink.
Or five drinks. Jägerbombs. And a five-dollar tip. Score.
I can feel my mystery man’s eyes on me the whole time. I like it a little too much.
I walk back to him, and he’s folding a napkin into a floppy origami crane. His long fingers are so precise and careful, exactly the opposite of what I’d expect. Those big hands, those calloused fingers. This guy is dangerous, but I think I could handle a little danger if it means having those hands on me for a night.
I reach into the back pocket of my tight jeans for my Sharpie, then I grab his hand and flip it over so his palm is up. I jot my phone number onto his palm, writing slowly, prolonging the skin-to-skin contact. When the last digit is written, I make eye contact and blow lightly on his palm to dry the ink. His pupils dilate, my core tingles, and then I walk away.
I make Jared, the other bartender, switch me sides, and I don’t see Butch Cassidy for the rest of the night, but he left the floppy napkin crane on the bar for me.
When I finally get to my locker at 2:30 a.m., I have three text messages.
Unknown: Hey. I’m Alex.
Unknown: I’m putting you in my phone as Sundance until you tell me your name.
Unknown: Have a good night, Sundance.
My smile is bigger than it should be.
2
The next morning, I wake up to six more text messages from Alex.
Unknown: Good morning, Sundance.
Unknown: I have a question.
Unknown: Something that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
Unknown: Can I ask it?
Unknown: I’m taking your silence as permission.
Unknown: Who is Harry and why does he have prince hair?
A small giggle bubbles up in me, and my lips are twitching with the urge to laugh outright as I respond.
Me: Your hair is longish and wavey. Very princely. Similar to the Harry Styles prince hair era. Ask Google.
Three dots pop up, then disappear. I wait thirty seconds, watching the text box, and just when I decide to throw my phone down and get ready for the day, the dots dance again, followed by a string of photos of Harry Styles in all his prince-haired glory.
Unknown: Prince Hair Harry is fucking gorgeous.
I laugh out loud.
Me: Facts.
Unknown: You think I look like him.
Me: Whoa there, Butch. Rein in your ego. I said your hair was similar. That’s where my comparison ended. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
Unknown: Whatever you say, Sundance.
Unknown: Any comparison at all is a compliment.
Unknown: This man is a god.
He sends me a few more pictures of Harry Styles. My smile is unbidden as I flip through them, thinking up a witty retort, but my breath hitches and my eyes go wide when the final picture is a selfie of Alex.
The selfie is from the shoulders-up, but I can tell he’s shirtless, and whoa momma, the traps on this one. His hair is loose and wavy, cascading around his defined, scruff-covered jaw, accenting a dimple in his chin, and dancing over the tops of his shoulders. His plump lips are pulled into a sexy crooked grin, and his deep brown eyes are crinkled at the corners. I’m so focused on the picture that I actually jump a little when the next text comes in.
Unknown: You think if I grow it out I can reach LHH status?
Unknown: (That stands for Long Hair Harry. Real fans know.)
I laugh loudly. This guy is ridiculous.
Me: I think you can try. But keep your expectations realistic. The only person who can pull off the perfect LHH is LHH.
I throw my phone on the bed and head for the kitchen. Ivy programs the coffee pot at night, so I’m hit with the aroma of caffeinated goodness the moment I step out of my bedroom. Judging by the silence, she’s already left for the library, which means I have the apartment to myself to spend the day baking before retiring to the porch to drink wine and read my newest romance novel.
After making my coffee and changing out of my sleepshirt, I pull out my cookie notepad and plan today’s recipe.
So far, the favorite amongst my taste testers have been a caramel cheesecake bar cookie. It was delicious, but I don’t know if it’s unique enough to win the cookie contest with Bakery On Main.
I need something creative. Something that will wow the judges. That’s not going to happen with some boring, run-of-the-mill recipe. No, I need a cookie that’s going to stand out.
I survey my ingredients. I still have stuff from the cheesecake bars, plus a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips, and my brand new, beautiful bottle of pure vanilla. Swoon.
On a whim, I run into my room and grab my phone. I read the new texts from Alex asking about my plans for the day, and in reply, I snap a picture of the vanilla and send it to him. His responses buzz through immediately, one after the other.
Unknown: What are you implying, Sundance?
Unknown: Are you baking?
Unknown: Or are you doing something “vanilla”?
Unknown: You’re welcome btw.
Unknown: For the vanilla.
I roll my eyes and smile. If he and I are going to keep up this text flirting, I might have to tell him to start condensing his messages. This firing squad of texts is a bit over the top.
My smile is huge the entire time I type out my response, and I can’t help the giggle that escapes when I hit send.
Me: I don’t need to thank you. It was mine first, and it belongs to me. If anything, you should be thanking me for convincing you not to continue your life of crime. And in the future, you’ll do well to remember something about me.
Unknown: What’s that?
Me: Nothing about me is vanilla.
I wait until I see the chat bubble dance on the screen before dropping my phone into the drawer of potholders and slamming it closed. Let’s let the big flirt sit with that for a while. He really has no idea who he’s playing with.
The entire time I measure, mix, and bake my latest cookie creation, my mouth is stuck in a smile, and it has nothing to do with the boy band throwback playlist I’m listening to.
* * *
Four dozen cookies and two new drafted recipes later, I’m ready to collapse in my bowl chair with my book and wine. I hope Ivy gets home soon, so she can be my taste tester, but she’s spent the afternoon with our friend Kelley, so there’s no telling when she’ll show up. Those two drive me freaking bonkers. They’ve been friends for like nine years, and I’m pretty sure they’ve been in love with each other for most of them.
But, of course, they don’t know it.
Me, our friend Jesse, and basically anyone else who’s ever seen them together can tell they’re head-over-heels, disgustingly gone for each other, but they’re oblivious. It’s as entertaining as it is annoying. One of these days, if they don’t wise up soon, I might be forced to do something drastic—like lock them in a bedroom with a box of condoms and “Lovesick” by Banks on repeat.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with the box of wine we have in the fridge. Boxed wine is my new favorite thing. It’s the alcoholic beverage choice of frugal bitches like me and Ivy. Classy bottle taste for a reasonable cardboard price. And you get like three bottles worth of wine in one box. It’s amazing.
Just as I’m about to take my wine to the balcony, a buzzing sounds from the potholder drawer. Oh shit. I forgot that I tossed my phone in there. When I take the phone out of the drawer, a legit cackle escapes me.
Twenty-five notifications.
At first, I’m flattered, but then it’s immediately replaced with suspicion.
If these are all from Alex, that’s fucking creepy. I’ve watched enough serial killer documentaries with Ivy to know that stage-five clingers are a GIANT red fucking flag, especially this early on.
I take a deep breath, then a gulp of wine, and then I swipe at my screen to open my messages.
Oh, thank you, baby Jesus.
Two texts, two missed calls, and a voicemail are from my mom, and I delete them immediately.
I have a couple texts from Jesse, Kelley’s roommate and the fourth member of our small friend group, informing me that Kelley took Ivy out to teach her how to drive a stick shift this afternoon. Jesse and I do this often, keep tabs on Kelley and Ivy. We like to speculate on when they’ll finally pull their heads out of their asses and admit their feelings for each other. It started as a joke, but now J and I are weirdly invested.
I don’t do relationships because I’m hashtag jaded, and Jesse has his own issues, so now we focus our attention on the sexual tension between our other two friends. And I can’t speak for J, but I’d like to see Ivy and Kelley work out because at least then I’ll know that kind of love—the real, true kind—can exist outside of the stories on my e-reader. And if anyone deserves that kind of love, it’s Ivy. She’s sweet, and pure, and good.
Ivy’s love language is acts of service. It’s obvious from all the little stuff she does for us; she’s a nurturer by nature, our Mama Bear. She and Kelley are pretty evenly matched in that way. My love language is quality time. With myself. Because most people suck. And Jesse’s is...hell, I don’t even know. Are immature jokes and schoolyard taunts a love language? His text messages sure suggest they could be.
Jesse: 5 bucks says they get into an argument that leads to a make out sesh.
Me: Argument is likely, but no way on the kiss. V has been preparing for this driving lesson for weeks. Nothin is gonna distract her from it.
Jesse: Yeah u right. So a *waving hand emoji* *Eggplant emoji* in the passenger seat?
Me: Perv.
Jesse: *dancing lady emoji* *praying hands emoji* *water emoji*
I laugh out loud as Jesse and I exchange a few more messages, his mostly emojis that take some brainpower to decipher, and then I switch over to our group text thread. V sent a selfie of her and Kelley in the front seat of a truck. She’s grinning proudly at the camera, and Kelley is, of fucking course, looking at her with a dopey love-drunk smile on his face.
