Page 140 of Waiting Game

“I do. But this is still crazy.Youare still crazy. And I’m even crazier because I don’t want to throw you out.

“I was scared you’d storm off when I told you about Gracie, and yet here you are, drinking my best single malt and telling me that I look good stuffed full of a dildo.”

“I don’t think those were my actual words.” At her returning scowl, I raise my hands. “It’s one of those things, baby. You take the rough with the smooth.”

She rolls her eyes then rubs her cheek. “Your brother’s in love with me?”

“Oh, yeah. Wants to be your Daddy Warbucks, but I wasn’t going to let him get away with that. Recognized you the first time you moaned.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It means your moans are very memorable.”

“Jesus Christ.” She shakes her head as she rounds the bar again, swiping past me.

At first, I think she’s going to the door—that’s her trajectory. But it isn’t. Instead, she bends over, gracing me with a glorious view of her ass, and picks up the gear I brought with me and shoves it in a bag. Ignoring me entirely, she drags it to the rather empty side of the bar.

Reading her intent and knowing her silent acceptance of my gift is a silent acceptance of me, I traipse after her and collect the stuff that’s still on the floor.

When I plunk it down, we stare at the loot.

“Do you do everything in excess?”

“Everything,” I promise.

“God help me.”

Though I chuckle, I murmur, “You should let us carry on?—”

“—with the cam-girling? No way.”

“Think about it.” When she shakes her head, I grunt. “Just think about it forme. And if not that, then let’s start up the classes again.”

She bites her bottom lip but nods.

I’ll take that win.

Deciding a change of subject is necessary, I grab a jersey and shove it at her. “You should wear this.”

“It’s signed.”

“You already have?—”

That’s when she lets loose an explosive shriek. “Oh, my god! I could kill you for sending that damn jersey to me when I wanted nothing more than to throttle you for ghosting me!” She whacks me on the arm. “You suck!”

I wink. “I can lick far better than I suck. Let me prove it to you later.”

“You’ll be lucky if anything gets licked or sucked for the next century!”

“You’re a hard taskmaster,” I chide.

“You know it.”

Though she sniffs, she doesn’t toss the jersey down.

I hide my smirk—I’m not an idiot—then plead, “You know what would make my year?”

Her glance is suspicious to say the least. “What?”

---