I groan, clenching my eyes shut. “I told you I can’t do this!”
Demi swats my arm. “Pitiful! I’ve seen toddlers with more control over their saliva!”
I slap my hand onto the wheel, exasperated. “I don’t spit, Demi!”
“Well, babe, that’s gonna be a problem. You’re going to have to find an alternative.”
I groan again, throwing my head back. “Fucking kill me.”
Demi sighs dramatically. “Alright, pull into the grocery store up here.”
I snap my head toward her. “I am absolutely not buying lube from the grocery store at 12:30 p.m. on a Tuesday.”
Demi bursts out laughing. “No, dumbass, we’re getting bananas.” She pauses, tapping her chin. “Or do you think we need a”—she glances at me, eyes gleaming with mischief—“bigger vegetable?”
I nearly swerve into the next lane.
She hasn’t even seen how bad my gag reflex is yet.
Wednesday nights are slow, but I don’t mind. Gives me time to think. And right now, all my thoughts are onher.
Elbows braced on the bar, I roll my glass of bourbon between my hands, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. It’s been three days since I kissed her, and I’m already losing my goddamn patience. The date felt perfect—better than I could’ve imagined it going—but now comes the tricky part.
How the hell do I play this?
I’m not trying to push, but I’m sure as hell not going to wait around, lovesick and passive, hoping she decides to act.
I want to see her. And not just for another dick-hardening kiss, though I wouldn’t complain if that’s all she wants to give. I want her time. Her attention. I want to learn everything about her. All the little things that don’t get put on display for the world.
A familiar blonde enters my periphery, walking past the bar outside.
Again.
Ashley Vaughn.
I pretend not to notice, but she’s there. And unlike Sable, I already know everything I need to abouther.
A little digging turned up more than I expected. She rolled into town using a fake last name, but her Georgia record under the real one made for an entertaining read.
Shoplifting, bar fights, credit card fraud. She had filed a restraining order against a man who turned up dead six months later. I don’t know if she did it, but I’d bet every dollar in my register she knows who did.
I flex my grip around the glass, keeping my expression neutral.
She came in the next night after Sable and mine’s very public-social-media date. A Monday, when the bar is practically empty. As if I wouldn’t clock her reemergence.
Ashley’s a bloodhound locked onto a scent she refuses to lose. And she’s not subtle about it. Not in the way she watched me from across the room. Not in the way she lingered too long when she ordered a drink. And definitely not in the way she keeps sniffing around Sable’s life.
It took one loose hand around her arm and a whisper in her ear to make her tremble:“You’re not welcome here. Not tonight. Not ever. And if I catch you so much as breathing too close to Sable again, I won’t be polite.”
She hasn’t stepped foot inside since.
Apparently, though, that message didn’t register past the threshold. She’s still hovering by the curb, vermin eyes scanning for a crack she can squeeze through.
If she tries anything again?
Well. I’ll handle it in a much different way.
The only thing keeping me from being in a worse mood tonight is the fact that I look out now and see the usual bar regulars. The ones who aren’t predatory psychos. Just good people looking for salacious gossip and cheap pours.
