Page 17 of Exclusive

I’ve got to get a new job. I like working at The K, don’t get me wrong, but now that I have a girlfriend, leaving her all night, every weekend night, just doesn’t feel right. In fact, I think it’s one of “the rules,” or at the very least, one of the “key benefits,” to being in a serious relationship — you’ve got indefinite plans with your “someone” on the weekends.

Not that Presley was ever big on going out and hitting the town, but I damn sure don’t want her to notice that being with me means sitting home alone on the two biggest “couple nights”… every weekend.

Or maybe, if I’m being totally honest with myself, it bugs me too. More. The most. Working in a club, surrounded by couples getting cozy… maybe it’s me who wishes I was doing the same with her.

And blondie here is not helping things.

“That’s nice of ya, really, but I can’t drink while I’m working. Thank you anyway,” I yell to be heard over the music, declining the beer, and everything else, the relentless blonde in front of me is offering. “You go on and have fun, find your friends.”

She puts on a fake pout, then slowly glides her tongue along her puffed-out bottom lip, and slides up closer. “Okay then, what about after work?”

I take a step back, offering the nicest smile I can. “After work, I’m going home to my girlfriend. But again, thanks anyway.”

“Well, poo,” she turns the pouting up a notch. “My loss. If it doesn’t work out, you know where to find me, sexy,” she purrs, skimming a fingernail down my arm before flouncing away.

Um, no, no I don’t know where to find her, and did she just say ‘poo?’ Really? Is that the kind of thing I used to go for, actually taking women up on such offers? Surely not, and thank God it’s no longer an option… Presley would’ve come up with a more clever, enticing way of playing that while asleep. I laugh, picturing my Hot Shot, and pull out my phone to text her.

Me: Whatcha doing?

It takes a couple of minutes for her to respond.

Hot Shot: Oh, not much, just being TORTURED.

Me: Really, tortured you say? By anyone I know?

Hot Shot: Skylar and Brynn. They’re over here blubbering on my couch, making me watch some Sci-Fi romance movie. Well, they’re trying to make me. I was clipping my toenails before you saved me.

I laugh out loud, shaking my head. Only Presley. I just had a girl in my face, trying her damndest to be sexy, yet here I am, utterly captivated by one I can’t see… who’s talking about her toenails.

Me: What movie is it?

I wait, knowing full-well that she won’t know, and needs to ask them.

Hot Shot: Time Traveler’s Wife

Me: Don’t know that one.

Hot Shot: And you never will, not because of me anyway.

Me: Then I never will.

Hot Shot: Wah wah (insert eye roll) you’re as sappy as they are.

Me: I try. (Insert wink) Sorry, forgot I was texting with Queen Hardass.

Hot Shot: Hey! I’ve been working on it!

And she has, “coming around” more, and faster, than I expected. The whole past week, we did things together, besides have sex… and she didn’t even try to hide the fact that she enjoyed herself. And bonus — by spending time with her, clothed and during daylight hours, I also picked up on a handy new trick to eliciting tons of information out of her without her realizing it — if I pose questions as a contest, or… a listing of ranks, categories, anything that calls for her to consider and prioritize, and she’ll accidentally give me a glimpse past her surface.

Which she just gave me the perfect set-up to use on her now. And Roman’s waving me over to help with a rowdy bunch, so…

Me: You have, Sugar, and I love it. So work on this -give me your list of BEST romance movies that aren’t sappy and you do enjoy.

I shove my phone in my back pocket and hustle toward Roman, grinning as I go, the image of her “tackling” the monumental assignment I just gave her tickling my mind. I can all but see it, her tongue stiff and poking out in concentration, eyes wild and wandering with the bloodthirst for competition — because in her mind, that’s precisely what’s happening — the movies are literally competing for their spot on her list. Fucking adorable.

“The fuck you smilin’ about? Grab somebody!” Roman shouts over the music and mayhem, holding two guys apart. “Where the fuck is Kai?”

“Dunno, but we got it.” I lock the obvious aggressor, too cocky for his own good, in a barrel hold. “You,” I yell at the “good guy, always DD” of the bunch, easy to spot in his plaid button-up and khakis, standing in the shadows of the huddle, “how many of these women came with ya?”

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