Page 20 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
Somehow, despite our constant conversation, Franco’s plate is empty, and mine is almost cleaned, too, though I barely remember even eating. All I’m aware of is him—his eyes, those pale intense icy blue orbs, and his scent from across the table, and the tightly restrained energy of his presence.
When we’re finished eating and the server has removed our plates, Franco pours the last of the wine into our glasses. “Dessert?” he asks.
I frown at him. “Do I look like someone who would eat dessert?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You look like you are dessert.”
Dammit, I shouldn’t respond to that. I should not—
“You’ve already sampled all the dessert I have to offer, haven’t you?” I hear myself say.
“Hell no,” he murmurs. “I think you have a lot more dessert I have yet to taste.”
“Dammit, Franco.” I huff an irritated, aroused sigh. “I need to use the bathroom.”
He just kicks back in his chair, tossing back the rest of his wine as he digs his wallet out of his left hip pocket. “I’ll be waiting.”
I use the bathroom and then, after washing my hands, I stand in front of the mirror, giving myself a mental pep talk.
Don’t do anything stupid. You’re a player, he’s a player; you both understand damn well how this works. You have all the explanation you need.
Yeah, but I knew all that before agreeing to meet him.
Exactly.
Wait—this pep talk is turning into an argument.
If I’d known beforehand why he left the way he did, then why did I agree to meet him in the first place, much less let him pick me up? And if the whole premise of this meeting is to talk about why he left, then why has that been only a small part of our conversation? And why are we flirting like this?
I know that answer all too well.
Deep down, under my consciousness, I knew how this would go, and it’s going exactly that way. But it can’t go there. I can’t let anything else happen. I should call a Lyft and go home.
ALONE.
Don’t let him take me home.
Bad idea.
Stupid idea.
Dangerous idea.
I fix my hair, adjusting this strand and that one, tug my top down and plump my tits up, hike my jeans a little higher, wiggle my feet in my heels, and then, with a sigh of irritation at myself, I exit the bathroom.
I find Franco by the hostess stand, discreetly picking his teeth with a toothpick, blatantly ignoring the hostess—who is leaning way over the hostess stand in an obvious ploy to attract his attention with her exposed cleavage.
Sorry, honey—he’s got all the cleavage he can handle right here, and mine are real, unlike yours.
Gah, that was catty, even in my own head. Why am I being such a bitch? I mean, it’s not like I’ve actually said any of the catty shit I’ve thought, but still. And it’s not like I even care whether he does anything with the hostess. Or whether her tits are real.
I don’t care about any of it. It was just a date.
No, wait—it wasn’t a date. It was just two people…who have fucked…having dinner together.
And talking about surprisingly personal things.
UGH.
It was a date.
He smiles at me, and his smile is warm and kind and friendly—making me feel even shittier about my catty, jealous thoughts and ridiculous, manufactured irritation. I’m really not even mad that he left like he did, only that he got the drop on me. But I am irritated that he knew as much.
“Ready?” Franco asks, holding the door open for me.
“Yep.” I sound short and brusque even to myself, and try again, more kindly. “Thank you.”
He opens the truck door for me, handing me up, closing it, and then climbing in behind the wheel. He starts the engine, but doesn’t pull out of the parking spot. “Something wrong?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I was calling myself on my own bullshit.” I sigh. “And also, the hostess annoys the hell out of me.”
Franco digs a slip of paper out of his hip pocket and shows it to me. It’s a scrap of receipt paper ripped from a printer, covered with looping, feminine handwriting: Michelle 630-434-1234 Call me ANYTIME for ANYTHING! The two words were triple underlined and highlighted in pink, with several hearts doodled around the “anything”, just in case her intent wasn’t clear.
I blink as I read it. “Wow. Not subtle.” I hand it back to him. “You going to call her?”
Franco snorts as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Not a chance in hell.” He stuffs the paper into the bin on the side of his door. His eyes flick to me. “I have other plans, and they don’t involve a desperate twenty-year-old.”
I gulp; hating the effect his words have on me even if I did love it. “Plans, huh? What plans would those be?”
