She’s quite pretty when she’s smiling thatyou are entirely too muchsmile, and I do love the way her dimples deepen as her smile broadens.
Though her brother was right.
She’s also quite pretty when she’s working in her burger bus.
There’s something undeniably attractive about a woman in her element, and Bea clearly enjoys interacting with the public and takes a great deal of pride in her mobile business.
She holds out her glass. “I would love a refill. Thank you.”
The limousine glides to a halt, and I pour bubbly into her glass until the bubbles pour over the edge.
“A thousand apologies. Let me get you a serviette.”
“I’ve got this.” She switches hands and licks the champagne off her fingers before I can reach for a cloth, and my cock once again goes lightheaded.
So this is to be my punishment for the evening.
Watching an attractive woman lick her fingers and knowing there’s only the slimmest of chances that she’d be up for a roll in the hay afterward.
Though the night is young.
And I still have many, many opportunities to be the world’s most perfect publicity date.
Especially since I know more secrets than she thinks I do.
I pass her a serviette anyway, and she uses it to dry her licked fingers and swipe around the glass.
She’s just finished when Tank opens the door for us.
I look at Bea. “Are you ready to make your public debut?”
She tugs the hem of her dress and smiles a smile that doesn’t dimple or shine as brightly as usual. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Then let us go make an entrance.”
9
DON’T FUCK WITH KARMA
Bea
The fucker didn’t getthe fountain fixed before the grand opening.
It shouldn’t bother me that Jake took shortcuts, but it’s the first thing I notice when I step out of the limo.
At least the grass has been cleaned up. Last I saw, it had overrun the brick patio in front of the converted Victorian mansion that once belonged to the first president of Austen & Lovelace College.
She named the house Ada Jane when she lived here.
I always thought it fit so well.
Now, there’s a banner drooping in front of the bushes beneath the front windows announcing the grand opening ofJC Fig, which also pisses me off.
Dad never wavered in saying he’d call his own restaurantJane’s Figif he ever saved up enough money to buy the old place. Partly to honor the original history of the place, partly because my mom’s name was also Jane, and partly because her favorite treats were the fig cookies he used to make.
Grief smacks me like a punch coming from inside my chest.
Dad should’ve lived. He should’ve lived and taken a leap with his dreams.
