Page 21 of Candy Coated Curves

But fast on the heels of that is another realization. Now that she’s standing this close to me, I know for sure. She’s way too damn young for me.

“I’ll be right back with your beers,” she says, her gaze lingering on mine for just a moment before she walks away, her steps slower at first, like she’s struggling to break free of the gravitational pull of that moment when our eyes met.

“Dude, that was like watching, I don’t know, grandma porn.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask.

“You know, it's like all intense and hot and shit. But nobody's naked.”

I’m already shaking my head before he even finishes his dumbass sentence. “Okay, that's not a thing and I don't want to ever hear those words come out of your mouth again. Besides, that's not what is happening. She's just … she's very pretty, but she's also very young,” I say as much to remind myself as to declare it to Blake.

Blake is still grinning. “She's not too young if she can work in a bar.”

“People work around that shit all the time. You know that.”

“True. But I’m not gonna get up and go ask to see all their licenses to make sure everything is in order. But I can tell she’s an adult, even if that means she’s a young one.”

“If she’s not old enough to rent a car, then she’s too young for me,” I say.

“That is the most asinine thing you’ve ever said.”

I’m about to argue when she returns with our beers. “Do you know what else you boys want?”

Yeah, I want to take you home and fuck you six ways to Sunday. That's what I want, angel baby. I want you naked and spread all over my house.

But I don't say that. I just stare at her again, because I evidently don’t know how to talk anymore.

Blake chuckles. “We’ll just take two fully loaded cheeseburgers.”

She gives me a look, like she’s waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she spins around and leaves the table again.

“Dude, you can't even talk. I mean, I've never seen you like this. All through high school, you were all top man on campus. You could talk to any chick.”

“That's not just any chick.” I jab my finger into the tabletop.

“Well, then talk to her; bring her home.”

Yeah, there are a thousand reasons why that’s a shitty idea. Starting with she’s too young for me and ending with this bullshit with my grandfather’s will. I need to get serious about finding a wife or my future will be screwed. I do not have time for this.

But that doesn’t keep me from watching as she approaches another table. It’s a round table of guys about our age, maybe a little older. And they’re handsy. She's smiling it off, smacking their hands away, dancing around the table so that she can get away from the one that clearly has some sort of problem with hearing the word no.

I’m seconds from getting to my feet, but then she leaves the table and is off to the kitchen.

“That shit is not okay,” I say.

“No, it's not,” Blake agrees.

“That happens again, and I'm putting a stop to it.”

It does happen again. And I don’t put a stop to it. Not because I don’t want to. But because she’s deft at putting a stop to it on her own, and she’s quick about it, rendering me useless. Which frankly pisses me off. If this shit happens every night that she works—it turns my stomach to even think of her having to fend off this many advances every damn night.

So when she approaches our table to bring our burgers, I’ve had enough.

I look up and catch her eye. “What's your name, angel?”

“Amber.” She puts her hand on her hip, not moving even an inch away from me. “What's yours, cowboy?”

“Quincy, but everyone calls me Quinn.”

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