Page 63 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
“Trish has decided that Holt is not her type.” Holt sputters into his beer glass while Trish sends him an apologetic shrug. “Where be all the hot man astronauts?” Rose jerks her thumb to the screen. “You know, the ones currently on land who are more easily doable.”
“Christ, Rose,” Flynn mutters. His breath tickles my neck, sending shivers down my spine. My glasses slip down my nose, but before I can adjust them, Flynn’s index finger pushes the frames back into place. He’s been staring at Rose, shaking his head in exasperation when he adjusted my glasses. I know I’m making more of it than I should. But it’s just that the movement was so fluid, so second nature, that it made me feel… I don’t know, important to him somehow.
Annnnnd, I need to stop thinking like this. Emotional rationale is not a thing, no matter how much I want it to be. Flynn probably has good reflexes or something.
“Holt, we’re out of beer. Go get us a new pitcher.” Rose pushes the empty one toward her brother.
I jump up, ready to change my train of thought. “I’ll get it!” Flynn starts to object, but I cut him off. “No, really. The astronauts are buying, remember? I just need to show them my badge.” I pull my lanyard out from my pocket and slip it over my head.
“Geek chic, girl.” Rose nods at my badge.
“Oh yeah. We’re real fashion conscious at NASA.” I swing my leg over the bench.
Rose clucks. “So you decided not to go for the thong, huh?”
I freeze mid-step. Dang it.
“Rose!” Trish smacks Rose’s arm.
“What? I was just saying...”
The surface of Mars has nothing on the current shade my face is turning, I’m sure. I make to hustle off and get the beer when Flynn pulls on my arm, bringing my face level to his. The first kiss is light. The second, not so much.
“Get it, girl!” someone shouts.
At the end, I can’t dredge up any embarrassment over having flashed my underwear. In fact, I would probably strip down to my bra and panties for another kiss.
Instead, I rein in my newly raging hormones and head toward the porch bar. It’s jam-packed so I decide to try my luck inside.
The rush of air conditioning chills my sweaty skin. People say you get used to the Texas heat.
They lie.
I lean forward on the less crowded bar, badge in hand. NASA throws a lot of business Boondoggle’s way, so even though it’s kind of shameless, I wave my badge around in order to get faster service.
I have a hot auto mechanic to get back to. A hot mechanic who likesme.
Lost in daydreams, I don’t realize someone’s stepped into the space next to me until they speak.
“Well, aren’tyoucute!”
I glance over my shoulder to see a woman worthy of a Victoria’s Secret commercial standing a few inches away, leaning on the bar like she owns it. Sleek, shiny blond hair falls in a precise, angled bob. She reminds me of a Barbie doll, especially with the insanely high stiletto heels. And her dress is reminiscent of the outfit I wore to Big Texas, except hers is actually shorter and tighter and she isn’t wearing a jacket. Thinking in Flynn terms, I’d describe it as not exactly street legal.
Not a single freckle mars this woman’s deeply tanned skin. Her left brow arches over a heavily made-up eye as she returns my study of her person with her own of mine. All I can think is—who’d wearthatto lunch at a family restaurant/bar?
I look around, thinking she’s talking to someone else. But I don’t think she was calling the pot-bellied, long-bearded man on my other side cute.
“Excuse me?” I ask, turning back to her.
“I said, ‘aren’tyoucute?’” Her smile looks stiff and mean while the tanned skin of her forehead and around her eyes is tight and unnaturally smooth.
“Thank you?” I search for something nice to say back, as I’m pretty sure that’s correct social protocol, but I definitely don’t think she’s cute, nor do I think comparing her to a Barbie doll will go over too well. I settle for, “You must have exceptionally toned legs to walk in such high heels.”
Her lips twist, as if she can’t tell if I’m being a smartass or not. Honestly, I don’t know myself. I just know I’m extremely uncomfortable talking to her. And for someone who is usually uncomfortable in social situations, that’s saying something.
“You must be his flavor of the month.” She pouts, her thick lip gloss melding her lips together.
Huh?
