Those were the two words I’d heard from my flower killer as soon as I’d opened the door.
My last boyfriend, for the entirety of the four months I’d wasted dating him, had never used those words.
I’d learned the hard way that when a man used those two words in a sentence, they were usually reserved for something sports related they’d seen on television. But Danny was genuinely shocked at seeing me in a slinky dress.
My ex had almost always found a way of making fun of me. Subtle words used by a man who’d believed Rolexes were the pinnacle of success. It had been the single time I’d allowed my mother to ‘hook me up’ with someone. Those had been her words when mentioning him over an ill-fated lunch. I’d spit out my red wine all over her thousand-dollar Prada dress. Her horror had been my amusement, but to make up my faux pas to her, I’d been forced to agree to go out with him.
At first, the few dates had been okay. They’d turned into him trying to tell me how to dress, ordering for me at dinner, telling me in no uncertain terms being a teacher was what people with no brain resorted to, and ignoring me altogether by scrolling on his phone. How many times had he told me what an important man he was as a stockbroker?
When I’d had enough, that had meant tossing a glass of wine in his face at my mother’s favorite restaurant. That had been the effective end of our mother-daughter relationship.
“What kind of man am I required to be?” When my current and much more handsome date asked me that question, I couldn’t help but gawk for a few seconds.
“Were you reading my mind?”
“Do you think I can?” His grin was wide.
“I’m beginning to wonder. Anyway, what do you mean what kind of man?”
“Well,” he started while twisting his hand around the steering wheel. “Should I be a doctor? I know my work is beneath your parents. I can even fake being a surgeon. You might be surprised. I’ll just describe the appendectomy they accidentally kept me awake on.”
“What? You were kept awake?”
“The anesthesia didn’t work. Anyway, I can be anyone you want me to be.”
How horrible that I’d almost suggested he pretend to be anything but what he was. “No. You don’t need to do that.”
“I don’t mind. Being a Zamboni driver must embarrass you.”
“As long as you’re not a shifter, then everything will be fine.”
“How come?”
“My father says shifters are disgusting, horrible creatures who don’t deserve to breathe clean air or live in communities. They only deserve to be in cages.” Reciting what my father had said since the monumental discovery chafed my butt to this day. Maybe I should warn Danny all over again what he was getting himself into. No, I didn’t want to terrify him any more than I had. “I’m sorry. Just be you. I can’t ask you to be anything else.”
He didn’t say anything, which surprised me. Maybe I’d shocked him by not conforming to what my parents wanted.
For once, I hadn’t either.
I’d chosen something I hoped my flower killer would love and apparently, he did.
Well, I had to admit the clothes I’d worn up until now had been either too skimpy or too schoolmarm-like. Seeing Danny’s faceand the wild look of hunger in his eyes was almost all I’d needed to feel more self-confident in heading to dinner.
He’d even offered a slight growl in appreciation, which had turned me on more than any other sound he could make. The man who’d graced the presence of my tiny foyer had not only filled the doorway, but in the shimmer of light offered by the waning sun, he’d appeared every girl’s wet dream.
My, oh my, the man could clean up well. I’d casually asked him if he owned a suit when I’d called and he’d laughed before huffing and puffing as if pouting. I’d tried to remind myself that this was just to appease my family.
By the time we’d left, my legs had been trembling.
And now that we were on the outskirts of Jacksonville, I was all hot and bothered. I’d tried to tell myself it was all about the Trans Am and its big block engine.
But somewhere fifty miles out from Tampa, I’d stopped lying to myself.
“Is it hot in here?” I asked while shifting in my seat before fiddling with the air conditioning vents. I’d gone out on a limb and purchased a sexy dress, one that was way over my budget. It was also on the naughty side complete with a slit stretching precariously close to my matching panties that I’d purposely worn.
No bra.
A lacy thong.
