Better With You (Better Love 2)

1

Four weeks earlier

Ismell like stale beer and french fries.

It’s disgusting. I’ll never let myself get used to it.

My shoes stick to the floor as I walk back and forth, wiping down counters and replenishing garnishes. Limes, lemons, oranges, green olives, and my favorite, maraschino cherries. I snag one before putting the garnish tray back in the ice chest.

“I’m about finished here,” I call to my manager, wiping my hands on my bar towel.

“You’re good, B. Thanks for coming in tonight. I know you’ve got a lot going on.”

“It’s cool.” I shrug. “I can always use the money. Even if it is a slow Wednesday, cash is cash.”

I grab a toothpick from the jar on the bar and steal another cherry from the tray in the ice chest. Popping it in my mouth, I wink at the guy two bar stools down. He left me a decent tip earlier. The least I can do is pay him one last bit of attention since he’s likely to be back.

“Alright girl, well, head out and I’ll see you on Saturday night. You’re closing.”

Jada pulls a draft for another guy and slides him the pint. A group of them came in to watch some live streamed coverage of the Butler University basketball team then stayed. I couldn’t care less about the game, but it’s the only reason I made any money tonight.

I say goodbye to Jada and head to the back of the bar to get my stuff. Switching out my hideous non-slips for my boots, I drop the shoes in my locker and grab my helmet and crossbody purse.

I should change my shirt because I know I stink like a bar, but I’m just too damn exhausted. I’ve been working more since Jada promoted me to lead bartender at Bar 31, my classes have been kicking my ass, and I’ve been spending all my free time trying to concoct the perfect cookie for the Bakery On Main cookie contest next month. My body is pissed at me and letting me know it, but if I can win that contest...the two-grand in prize money would be worth it. I don’t even care about having my name and cookie displayed on their menu. Okay, that’s a lie. That would be cool. But the prize money? That’s the real appeal.

I duck out the back exit and walk to my bike. She’s my Baby. A black 2012 Honda Rebel 250. I bought it used from the guy who owns the auto garage back home for $1500. It was a fucking steal, but I think he felt sorry for me and cut me a deal. Sometimes there are advantages to being the girl everyone pities.

Putting my purse in the saddle bag, I swing my leg over the bike, put on my helmet, and start her up. No matter how tired I am, the rumble of her engine always gives me a jolt of excitement. Something about the freedom and the danger, maybe. I rev her twice, just for fun, and then cruise out onto the street.

It’s already a little past midnight when I pull into the parking lot of Quick Stop, the small convenience store just off campus. It’s late, I’m beat, and I only need one thing, so I’m braving it.

I hate having to shop so close to campus. I don’t like running into people I know.

Working at one of the popular campus bars means a lot of people recognize me. Occupational hazard. Unfortunately, there are not a lot of jobs where I can make 500 bucks on a weekend fully clothed, so when I’m on the clock, I fake it. Makes me quite a damn peach when I clock out.

After locking my helmet onto the backrest and grabbing my purse, I pop in my earbuds—a whole other level of antisocial. I spent the last three hours being on. Any more human interaction and I might develop a twitch.

My 2000’s pop punk playlist—the one I reserve for post-bar shifts—is blaring in my ears, and I head to aisle six, where they keep the baking stuff. I scan the shelf, find what I need and go to grab for it, then stop.

Shit. This store actually has pure vanilla extract. I drop my hand. I was gonna get the imitation stuff—it’s what I’ve been using—but if I want to win this contest, I need quality ingredients.

Shit. Eight freaking bucks for two ounces? I can get eight ounces of the imitation for $1.99.

I groan. This hurts. Like actually flipping hurts.

It’s that poor kid mentality. I’ll probably never outgrow it.

I sigh, resigned, and reach for the pure vanilla, just as another hand snatches it from the shelf. I whip around keeping my eyes on the precious bottle—the only one this stupid convenience store has—and huff.

I’m about to pop off and put this snatchy thief in their place, but my attention is stolen by the hand that’s holding the bottle. A big hand. A strong hand. A sexy hand.

Hmm.

I scan my eyes upward. A few woven bracelets are tied loosely around the thick wrist, and a dusting of hair covers the muscular, rigid, golden forearm.

That’s a nice forearm, right there.

I move my gaze farther up, over a defined bicep and a broad chest covered in a blue and white baseball-style t-shirt with a silver necklace of some sort hiding just beneath the collar. The defined jaw is sporting a bit of dark brown scruff, and soft, chestnut hair feathers just above the shoulders.

I expand my focus, enough to study the whole hairstyle, to find it loose, kinda messy, with a bit of a wave to it.

Prince-haired Harry hair.

When the mouth moves, I flick my eyes down to it to find plump lips quirked in a bit of a smile, and they move again.

The hulking man is speaking.

“Huh?” All I can hear is Patrick Stump in my ears.

His mouth moves a third time, the tiny smile turning into a full-blown grin, showing off straight, white teeth.

Then I watch in slow motion as the other hand, the one not holding my bottle of pure vanilla hostage, rises up and tugs one of my earbuds out of my ear.

“You said Prince Harry,” he says with a laugh.

“No, I said prince-haired Harry,” I correct. “And I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.”

“Oh,” he says, voice low and playful, and raises an eyebrow in question. I raise mine in response but don’t speak, and he laughs. “Are you okay?”

I bristle. “I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t sure. You’re kinda just standing there staring.”

“I was sizing up my new enemy.” I tug out my other earbud.

“Enemy?” He laughs again. It’s a good laugh. Deep and vibratey. Yes, I just made up that word. The laugh is unique. It deserves its own word.

“You just stole that vanilla from me. I don’t make it a habit to befriend thieves.”

“I didn’t steal it. I just got it before you.” He’s still smiling. It’s an attractive smile, damn it.

“I was clearly here first. I was clearly reaching for that bottle when you jumped out of nowhere and snatched it.” I put my hand on my hip and pop it out. My roommate Ivy calls it my power pose. She says it’s how she knows when I’m in a ‘take-no-prisoners’ mode.

“You were here first, yeah. But you were standing there surveying the shelf for a pretty long time,” he says with a smirk. “Some of us have places to be. It’s not thieving to just sneak past ya and grab what I need.”

“It’s line jumping, which everyone knows is poor social etiquette, and it is thieving, because that bottle is mine.”

“Poor social etiquette?”

“Mmhm.”

“Is it poor social etiquette to blatantly check out a stranger at the grocery store, too?” He raises his eyebrows, grin still affixed to his mouth.

I huff out a laugh. “Please. I was not checking you out. I was surveying you for weaknesses in case I have to resort to violence.”

His answering bark of laughter makes me lose my grip on my poker face, and I smirk.

Okay, maybe this particular social interaction isn’t the worst.

“Resort to violence?” He laughs. “I’m like twice your size.”