He laughs, giving an amused shake of the head before nodding his agreement. “Deal. Shake on it?”
He sticks out his hand, and I narrow my eyes at it. Then I meet his gaze, pop a brow, and slowly reach out to take his hand.
It’s warm and calloused. His grip is firm, but not crushing, and I have a feeling his hands could do some serious damage if he wanted them to. The thought sends a shiver through me. The way his eyes flash with heat tells me he noticed, so I drop his hand and head to the check out.
He follows me out the door, the bottle of vanilla and the store receipt clutched in my hand. When we’re on the sidewalk, I turn around.
“You stay here,” I remind him, pointing to the sidewalk where his feet are planted. “No moving.”
“Cross my heart.” He uses his index finger to draw an X on his chest, and I have to hold back my smile at how serious he looks.
I take my first few steps backwards, keeping my eyes on him, until I’m about twenty feet away. Then I pivot on the ball of my foot and sashay to my bike. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I might not have much in the curves department, but what I do have, I know how to work. When I reach Baby, I put the vanilla and my purse in the saddle bag, unlock my helmet, then turn back around to face the guy. I lean on my bike lightly and smirk at his shocked expression.
People never expect me to be riding a motorcycle. It’s one of the reasons I love it.
We stare at each other for a moment, me with my smirk and him with his wide, surprised eyes. The connection creates sparks, even with a parking lot between us, and I have to breathe slowly to steady my heartbeat.
“Is the package secure?” he shouts from the curb, and I reach down and pat the saddlebag.
“Snug as a bug in a rug.”
“Okay. I held up my end of the bargain. It’s your turn to hold up yours.”
“Hmmm, what was my end, again?” I cock my head to the side and watch as he grabs the back of his neck and smiles at the ground. It’s so boyishly adorable, so magnetic, that I kind of hate him a little. This guy is dangerous.
“Your number,” he reminds me.
“Oh yeah,” I say with grin. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one?” His handsome face scrunches up in confusion.
“Yep. Thirty-one.” I stifle a giggle.
“Thirty-one is not your phone number.”
“It’s not,” I respond slowly. “But you didn’t specify what number you wanted.” I shrug. “Thirty-one is the number you get.”
As I swing my leg over my bike, I hear his rumbling laugh again, exasperated and amused. I’m just about to push my helmet on my head when he calls out.
“Sundance! Hey, Sundance,” he shouts, and I can’t help the huge smile that stretches over my face. That scoundrel said he didn’t know Butch Cassidy, and here he is calling me Sundance. “I didn’t get your name.”
I look at him, smile wide, and roll my eyes. “Bummer for you.”
Then I shove my helmet on my head, rev Baby to life, and cruise out of the parking lot without a backward glance.
When I get back to my apartment, it’s past one in the morning, and I have a 9:30 a.m. class tomorrow. Ivy is probably asleep, so I move silently toward the kitchen. I put the vanilla in the cupboard and take a minute to admire it on the shelf. It’s such a luxury. Makes me feel rich for a hot minute.
I flip off the kitchen light and walk to the sliding doors to our small balcony. I gaze longingly at my wicker bowl chair. I had plans that included that chair, my new romance novel, and a glass of wine tonight. Three of my favorite things: sexy romance novels, wine, and solitude. Hate love, but love romance novels. At heart, I’m basically a forty-year-old divorcee (who caught her ex cheating with the twenty-one-year-old secretary, so she dumped his lying ass and is now living comfortably on alimony payments without guilt. Duh.) Add in a pool boy and pack of Virginia Slims that “I o
nly smoke when drinking” and I could practically be an ex-Beverly Hills housewife.
If I hadn’t been called in to work, and then gotten distracted by the sexy stranger with the Harry Styles hair, I’d probably be able to bust out maybe half the book. Definitely would have gotten some dick. Fictional dick, but usually that’s better anyway.
I smile at the thought of my convenience store thief, Butch Cassidy, and my chest warms. That was an in real life meet-cute if I’ve ever seen one. I didn’t think that shit actually happened outside of books and movies. I guess forfeiting a few chapters of contemporary erotica to flirt with the hot guy in the baking aisle isn’t a big deal.
In my bedroom, I take out the cash I made tonight and divide it up. Fifty bucks is pretty decent for a slow Wednesday night. I put forty of it back in my wallet to be deposited in my bank account to help cover usual expenses, and I take the remaining ten and shove it into the Crisco can I keep in the back of my closet. I update the total on the pink sticky note inside the can and scowl at it. I’ve been saving for six months and it’s like I’ve barely made a dent in my goal. I’m hoping the promotion at work will help, but it’s still taking too long. The sense of urgency, of guilt, is overwhelming.
It’s been almost three years, already. Not for the first time, I curse myself for not starting sooner. For not thinking of it sooner.