Love You Better (Better Love 1)

If I can win this cookie contest... That two grand would be a game changer. I could make my deadline. He deserves at least that.

I have to win this contest. I kiss my fingers, press them over the tattoo on my chest, and murmur a promise. I will win this contest.

I shove the Crisco can back into my closet, grab a sleepshirt, and head into the bathroom that I share with Ivy. I need to scrub the bar smell from my body before I crash into bed. Then it’s another day of classes and experimental baking.

Hopefully I can squeeze some fic-dick in there, too.

At least I don’t have to work again until Saturday.

* * *

By the time Saturday evening rolls around, I’ve almost forgotten about the baking aisle boy. I did think I saw someone similar on campus today, and once yesterday I thought I heard his laugh. But otherwise, he’s just a fuzzy memory, fading from my short-term memory, never to be fantasized about again.

Saturday nights at Bar 31 are always hopping. I’m closing tonight, so I can make a cool $200 at least, and it will be easy money. Rum and Cokes, vodka cranberries, and way too many Jaeger bombs.

College kids and their distinguished pallets. Ha.

Around 1 a.m., Thirty minutes before I get to climb on a stool and shout LAST CALL into the bar microphone, a familiar hand slides into my line of sight.

A sexy hand.

With woven bracelets tied to a thick wrist.

I allow myself one small smirk before meeting his chocolate brown eyes.

“You found me,” I shout over the music and crowd noise.

“I did. It wasn’t too hard. I’ve been in here every night since Thursday.”

I pop a brow and fight a smile. “So, you’re a stalker as well as a thief.”

His smile is immediate, his perfectly straight teeth on display.

“We’ve established I’m not a thief. And I consider myself more an investigator than a stalker. You told me thirty-one. I solved the riddle.”

I nod. Gotta admit, his determination is hot.

“Does this earn me your phone number?”

His voice is quieter, no longer shouting over the noise, because we’ve somehow gravitated closer. I’m leaning over the ice chest, him over the bar top, and we’re mere inches apart. I take a moment to study him. Thick eyebrows, thick lashes, thick lips. I wonder what else on him is thick...

A guy to my left is waving his card at me, so I give a “hold that thought” finger to the attractive man monopolizing my time and head to make a drink.

Or five drinks. Jaeger Bombs. And a five dollar tip. Score.

I can feel my mystery man’s eyes on me the whole time. I like it a little too much.

I walk back to him, and he’s folding a napkin into a floppy origami crane. His long fingers are so precise and careful, exactly the opposite of what I’d expect. Those big hands, those callused fingers. This guy is dangerous, but I think I could handle a little danger if it means having those hands on me for a night.

I reach into the back pocket of my tight jeans for my Sharpie, then I grab his hand and flip it over so his palm is up. I jot my phone number onto his palm, writing slowly, prolonging the skin-to-skin contact. When the last digit is written, I make eye contact and blow lightly on his palm to dry the ink. His pupils dilate, my core tingles, and then I walk away.

I have Ben, the other bartender, switch me sides, and I don’t see Butch Cassidy for the rest of the night.

When I finally get to my locker at 2:30 a.m., I have three text messages.

Unknown: Hey. My name is Alex.

Unknown: I’m putting you in my phone as Sundance until you tell me your name.