Page 4 of Shortcake
He raked a hand through thick, chestnut-colored hair and muttered a curse. “Men are assholes.”
“True,” I said and gestured to the bartender, asking him for a vodka soda.
From behind the bar, the bartender responded quickly, pouring the vodka soda, heavy on the vodka, and sliding it down to me.
Before I could yank my credit card out of my purse, Brawny had tossed down a twenty. “This one’s on me. No need to keep maxing out that credit card.”
“Thank you.” On any other day, I might have argued with him. Hell, even bought him a drink. But I wasn’t exaggerating. I had about thirty bucks left to my name.
He nodded in lieu of ayou’re welcome.
“So… why does Jim think you need a good time tonight?” I asked.
The gruff, humorless laugh sliced into my core. I knew that laugh. I lived that laugh. That uncomfortable chuckle you did when you didn’t want to talk about something, but also the conversation veered way too close to serious for your liking.
“You don’t want to hear my sob story.”
“Try me.”
Scraping his palm down his stubble, he sighed. “I’ll give you one part of it. Just one. And I don’t want to hear any platitudes or apologies from you for it… deal?”
I nodded. “Deal.”
Keeping his gaze fixed onto his beer, he wrapped two impressively large hands around them and cleared his throat. “My mom was diagnosed with MS last week,” he said.
Shit. Without the safety net of the overusedI’m sorry, I didn’t know what the hell to say to that. I didn’t know a lot about MS, outside of a friend of a friend whose dad had it in high school. But I knew it was bad. And there was no cure.
“Well, Mr. Brawny,” I held up my glass and clinked the edge to his beer. “I think I can let you off with a warning tonight.”
“Thank you, Officer Cavitysearch.”
In some distant part of my brain, a little voice said,This guy could be more than a one-night stand if you let him!
The voice belonged to my best friend, Enzo… short for Mackenzie. And she wasn’t wrong, even though everything about Brawny Man was wrong for me.
He was too old, older even than Dante. He was quiet. Begrudgingly went to bars. He was a nice guy. A quiet guy. The kind of guy I could eat for breakfast; chew up and spit out in twenty-four hours.
But I couldn’t ignore the desire that zipped through my body like a meteor shower. The excitement wasn’t just in one little section of my body like when I met other hot guys. It wasn’t just the little flip of my belly, like when I’d first seen Dante. Or the racing pulse I felt when I saw Brian at a football game my senior year of high school.
This was different. All encompassing.
And then there was the intensity of his blue-black eyes.
It’s just the heartache talking, I told myself. My stupid overactive brain, tender heart, and neglected loins that were in overdrive because of the crazy day I had yesterday.
What I needed was one night. That was it. That was the plan. One night to get over Dante. Wash him of my thoughts and body. Erase him from this vacation that he was supposed to be at my side for.
“You know,” I said. There must have been a shift in my voice because, his eyes somehow, impossibly darkened even more. “My hotel is just around the corner. And I’ve got a really good bottle of Oban there.”
Dante’s favorite.
“How do you know I like scotch?”
I lifted a shoulder to my ear. “Just a guess.”
His jaw twitched, gaze dropping to my mouth. “I don’t even know your name.”
“I don’t know yours, either. And that’s how it should stay. No names. No numbers. I’ll be Anita. You’ll be Brawny.”
