“That’s not going to work—“ The words slipped past my lips with clear annoyance, something he seemed to like as he looked at me with a shit-eating grin.
“Try it,” he said, and for some reason, because I literally couldn’t seem to help myself, I rolled my eyes. I stepped forward, going to push it, fully prepared to have the cart give me issues, when it simply rolled easily as if it was brand new.
“What?” I asked under my breath while glaring at the traitorous cart in front of me. “Well…” I sighed before forcing myself to look up at him. “Thank you.” The words came out begrudgingly, only making me sound and look like a bigger brat or bitch than he already probably thought I was.
“Anytime, spitfire.”
“Marty,” I corrected, ignoring the slight heat that started to bloom over my face. “My name is Marty.”
“Martina,” he corrected. “Martina Gomez,” he said as if I didn’t know my own full name. Question was, who the hell had told him? Another eye roll slipped past me, but he seemed unfazed by it. “Listen, I was wondering?—“
“No, thank you,” I cut him off immediately even if everything inside of me wanted to know what he’d come over to ask. Would he want to hang out? Go on a date?Date?The man didn’t exactly give off lover by vibes with those tattoos.
“Excuse me?” he snapped me out of my crazy thoughts.
“No, thank you,” I repeated as politely I could manage.
I didn’t need this hunky, tatted-up biker who lit my body up like the Fourth of July giving me nicknames or making offers I had no doubt he could deliver on only to give me the inevitablesee ya later. I knew just by looking at him and the way he held himself together, the confidence in how he simply stood up, that the man would definitely know how to make a woman scream out his name and leave her ruined for anyone else. No. If I needed an itch scratched, it would not be by him.
“No, thank you,” I said again, and was it just me, or did I not sound as convincing the second time? Nope. I didn’t, if the little mischievous grin that spread over his beautiful mouth hinted at anything.
“No, thank you?” he repeated, shoving his beautiful big hands into the pockets of his black denim pants, highlightingthe bulge of his biceps and veiny forearms. “I haven’t asked anything.”
“Yet. And when you do, I have a feeling that answer is just what it’s going to be,” I quickly said. “Now I have work and—“ I started to round the cart, but he blocked it, forcing me to make eye contact with him.
“That’s what it was about,” he said easily, but something about the way his gaze held mine made me wonder if that was really what this was about or his way of changing the direction of this conversation.
“What?”
“About work. I was wondering if you could come with me.”Shit! I’ve finally done it. My mouth finally got the better of me, and I am getting fired!
“Listen,” I started to say, but he simply took the cart and started to push it out of the room, and for some reason, I followed him. “I know I can get a little… mouthy.”
“Mouthy,” he repeated, sparing me a glance over his shoulder as he pushed the cart down the empty hallway.
“Yeah, and sometimes that gets the better of me, but look—” I stopped and was surprised to see he noticed immediately and did the same. “I need this job.”
“I’m not firing you,” he said in an irritatingly calm tone.
“You’re not?” I gaped at him.
“No. Did you want me to?” Curiosity filled his green stare.
“No!” I scoffed. “Do you have any idea what the job market’s like in Vegas right now?” I sputtered out without thinking, no idea why I’d say something like that to a man who more than likely had the power to kick my ass to the curb.
“Not really, but I’m guessing it’s bad?”
“Bad enough I’d have to dance again,” I blurted, again without thinking. He slowly turned to look at me. Our eyesconnected, and there was something working behind those mossy green irises of his.
“You danced?” His voice sounded like gravel, low and deep with a scratchy quality.
“Yup, and not ballet, in case that was your next question,” I smarted off with a shrug.
It wasn’t a big deal, nor was it ever a secret. Not even with my mom or sister. They’d both known and supported me. Shit, my mom had even handsewn me a couple outfits because no matter what her girls chose to do, they were the best at it, and she was never worried about showing her pride over her girls and helping them in any way she could.
I felt his eyes leave mine as they moved up and down my body, not bothering to hide his appreciation. I didn’t wither away like some wilting flower. Hell no. I knew what I looked like and what men liked about my body. I’d made a good living knowing exactly that.
What he didn’t do was say something stupid like I wholeheartedly expected him to. Why wouldn’t I? Every man I had ever shared that with had. Instead, he started to move again in the direction of the elevator, pushing my cart in front of him.
