I don’t know, Anne. Because I’m making this shit up.
I can’t say that. Instead, I shrug. “Small towns.” You can get away with blaming a lot of eccentricities on small town syndrome.
Annemarie rolls her eyes at me. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re liking it. I bet Cas is happy to have the extra help. Really helps free up some of her extra time to work on her book.”
Flint grunts in a way that tells me he is still arguing with Calida mentally, so I give him a nudge under the table with my foot.
He brings eyes back to Annemarie’s and smiles. “Has she let you read it yet?”
Annemarie feigns outrage. “Of course not! She hasn’t letyou, has she?”
Her voice is doing that raising in octave thing that I fear.
Flint smiles and winks at her.
She whirls to me, smacking my arm with the back of her hand. “You bitch!”
Flint’s deep laugh cuts her tirade off at the knees and I can feel a wave of heat wash through my body. Christ, this man…
She stops and studies his face with narrow eyes. “That was just fucking mean…” she starts, but whatever she was going to say is interrupted by Betsy. Not only has she returned , she’s balancing all four drinks on a server’s tray. Where the hell did she find a serving tray?
Actually, forget it. I’m more interested to learnhow she became covered in glitter and where she found a feather boa.
Before I can ask any questions, she hands out the drinks – something fruity and girly to Annemarie, an IPA for Flint and a standard vodka and cranberry for me – before turning around and heading back to the bar. I assume she’s returning the serving tray she’s borrowed. Flint excuses himself to the restroom. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Annemarie turns to me.
“Are you making a move on him or what?” she demands.
I choke on the first sip of vodka. That bodes well.
“We’re… just…”
She scoffs and takes a regal sip from her pink drink. “You think I don’t see how he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t looking? Or howyou’vebeen looking at him when he isn’t looking? I’ve got two working eyes in my head, ma’am. Do. Not. Insult. My. Intelligence.”
To buy myself time, I take another, longer sip of my drink. I try to focus on the way the vodka burns its way down to my belly, but I get distracted. “Wait – he looks at me?”
If she rolls her eyes any harder, she’s going to see her brain. Maybe she can tell it hi from me.
“Yes, woman. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. A blind man could see the sparks you two are letting off a mile away.”
I don’t know what to do with that information, so I say nothing and poke at the ice in my drink with the straw.
“You know, he asked me what he should wear tonight.”
Surprised, I looked up. “He did what now?”
She nods, a satisfied smile gracing her face. “Yep. He cornered me before I left for the day, after we told him we were coming out tonight. He wanted to know what was appropriate wear for Beat. I’m getting the definite vibe that he wanted to a) not embarrass you, and b) impress you.” She waits a beat before raising an eyebrow. “So, how’d we do?”
Before my brain can tell my mouth to stop and consider my next words carefully, my mouth takes off on its own to say “The man would look good wrapped in trash.”
I guess that explains his slightly dressed up appearance tonight. At home, he’s been mainly wearing sweats or basketball shorts with t-shirts. Occasionally, I’ll catch him in a hoodie if it’s after one of his early morning runs. To the shop, he’s been wearing jeans, mostly matched with t-shirts. Tonight, however, he is wearing what appears to be a sleeveless shirt under an open collared button-up. The sleeves are rolled up, highlighting those delectable forearms, showing off hard lines, sinew and ink. He’s wearing a pair of heavy black boots, which makes more sense to me than Anne’s choice of open-toed sandals. Toes are bound to be stepped on tonight, I reflect, wiggling my own in my old trusty sneakers.
“I KNEW IT!” she crows, lifting her glass in what I can only assume is a toast to herself.
“Knew what?” I canfeelthe blood heating my face and wonder if there’s a medical procedure that can make that stop.
“Bitch — please. You wanna eat that man up like a sundae.”
“I do not, “ I protest. Then, I flash back to his inadvertent nakedness a few days ago. What the hell, I think. It’s Annemarie. “I could, however, eat one off his naked abs. Also, did you know that ink on his arm goes much,muchfarther?”
