“How the fuck do I do that?” He’s talking in riddles, and it’s not like I’ve got any experience with this stuff.
I know how to get a woman into my bed, period.
Getting a woman to spend time with me outside the bedroom is a foreign concept, and I’m more than a little out of my depth. I’ve never wanted to get to know a woman until I met Presley, and it terrifies me as much as it enthralls me. I have zero clue what I’m doing. Or even why I’m doing it.
I accepted a long time ago that I wasn’t destined to find love. Not like the kind my brothers have with their girls. I doubt there’s a single girl on the planet who could put up with my shit. I come with a truckload of baggage, and it’s not attractive.
“You fucking woo her, you dumbass.” He thumps me in the upper arm. “Send her flowers or cupcakes, or walk her home from work, or write her a letter, or—”
“I’m not writing her a fucking love letter. That’s lame ass.”
Kev chuckles, slapping me on the back. “‘Much you have to learn, young padawan.’”
I groan. “Not you too.” I blame Keaton for the fact all my brothers can quote random movie lines at the drop of a hat. Keats is movie obsessed and a lover of all the big blockbusters. If it’s notStar Wars, it’sTwilightor—I stop my train of thought as a tight pain spreads across my chest, like it does anytime I think of my triplet.
“Just be yourself, dude.”
“I don’t think that’ll help. She hates who I am.”
Kev shakes his head. “I’m not talking about the perception the public has of you, that face you show the world.” He pins me with a serious expression. “Show her who you really are. Let her know the real you, and if she turns you down after that, then she’s not worthy of you.”
CHAPTER SIX
Presley
I stroll into the bar Monday evening, stopping at the counter to kiss Tommy on the cheek. “Miss me, stud?” I tease, sliding behind the bar.
“For sure, sweetheart. Ford’s pretty, but he’s not in your league.”
I bark out a laugh, waggling my fingers at my coworker, as I push through the door into the staff room. I slam to a halt as a delicate floral scent slaps me in the face. Blinking repeatedly, I stare at the massive bouquet of flowers perched on top of the small counter that runs the length of the back wall.
“They came earlier,” Ford says from behind me, and I detect the grin in his tone. “Kennedy is slick. And persistent. I’ll give him that.”
“They’re forme?” My voice betrays my disbelief. No one has ever bought me flowers before.
Ford nudges me forward. “That’s your name on the card.”
I stare in awe at the beautiful flowers, burying my nose in the soft petals. I recognize the roses and lilies, but I don’t know what the peach and cerise pink flowers are or what you call the green foliage interwoven between the more colorful blooms. They are tied in a big white bow, and the card does indeed have my name on it.
I open it up, hoping Ford hasn’t noticed how my fingers are trembling.
Go out with me? Because I’m “All Shook Up” over you.
I choke out a laugh over the lump wedged in my throat. Throwing the Elvis reference in there is kinda cheesy, but it’s oddly sweet too.
“Dude must want in your pantsreal bad,” Ford says, leaning over my shoulder, not even pretending he isn’t reading the message.
Turning around, I punch him in the upper arm. “Don’t rain on my parade. Whatever the reason, it’s still a thoughtful gesture.” But it’ll take a lot more than this to worm his way into my bed.
Kent shows up a couple hours later, sliding onto the stool directly beside Tommy, shooting me with a panty-melting grin that has my ovaries weakening. Wetting my suddenly dry lips, I ignore the strange fluttering in my chest as I walk toward him. “Kent.” I plaster a smile on my face. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll take a Coke and whatever he’s having.” He jerks his head sideways at Tommy.
“My usual, sweetheart,” Tommy says, never one to turn down free booze.
Tommy is the only guy in this bar that gets a free pass to call me sweetheart. With anyone else, it would be sleazy as fuck, and I’d get Bugger or Digger to throw them out on their ass. But Tommy is a true gent, and in his day, sweetheart was a genuine endearment and not a term used by douchebags to fake charm women into their bed.
I fix their drinks, sliding them in front of both men. “They’re on me.” I stare into Kent’s wide blue eyes. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”
