Page 68 of Burnout
“Well, I’m glad she had you to help her out,” she says, not sounding at all glad.
God, she’s stubborn.
“Yeah. My brother wouldn’t normally throw someone to the wolves like that, but he came down with the flu and no one could fill in.”
“Your brother…” she trails off, the lilt of a question in her tone.
“Owns the place, yeah. I’m not much of a bartender but I know where shit is and I can change a keg, so occasionally I jump in and help if things get hectic while I’m there.”
I watch the pieces come together for her and the way her body language softens as she realizes I’m telling the truth. But then her spine stiffens again. “You had so many girls hitting on you tonight, it was an easy mistake to make.”
“Why weren’t you one of them?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious. If she wanted to hook up with me, why didn’t she just tell me?
“You don’t need me to feed your ego.”
“This isn’t about my ego. Were you or were you not hoping tonight would end with me here?”
“Part of me was,” she admits.
“Then why not just say that?” It would have saved a lot of time. We could already be naked.
Exasperation makes her blue eyes spark to life and she shrugs her shoulders high up to her ears. “Because…I don’t know, okay? I haven’t done casual hookups before and I don’t know how to do this.”
No shit. I called that the other night.
“I told you I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” she says. “I’m not asking for that. I’m just bad at doing this.” She motions between us. “Who was the other girl? Long, black hair, tattoos.”
“Just a friend I’ve known a long time.”
“A friend you’ve hooked up with?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
She shakes her head. “I was jealous.”
“You didn’t need to be. The only person I was interested in leaving with was you.”
Her gaze narrows like she’s weighing the truth of my words.
“Why’d you run away instead of telling me all this at the bar? Hoping I’d chase you?”
“No. I promise I did not expect you to show up here.”
“Good. I don’t chase.”
“But here you are anyway.”
We’re in a standoff, neither of us wanting to budge. But every second I stand here is another second I’m not kissing her.
I step forward and grab her hand, then tug her toward me. Her lips finally pull into a smile.
“Here I am anyway.” I brush my fingers along the curve of her neck. Her skin is warm and soft, and she leans into my touch.
We lunge at the same time, our mouths colliding in a frantic need to get closer. She tastes like mint toothpaste. My hand slides to the back of her head and I wrap my fingers around her ponytail.
I guide her toward the open bedroom. She pushes my jacket off my shoulders, and I shrug out of it and toss it toward a desk chair.
