Better With You (Better Love 2)

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 tonight that included that chair, my new romance novel, and a glass of wine. Two of my favorite things: sexy romance novels and wine. Romance in real life, not my jam. But romance in books? Fricken love it.

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 would have been able to bust out maybe half the book. Definitely would have gotten some dick. Fictional dick, but that’s usually 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 romance 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 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.

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 to my chest, just over my heart, 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 timeSaturday evening rolls around, I’ve almost forgotten about the baking-aisle boy.

I did think I saw someone similar on campus yesterday, and once Thursday I thought I heard his laugh on the quad. But, otherwise, he’s just a fuzzy image, 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 Jägerbombs.

College kids and our 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 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 toward each other. 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. Jägerbombs. 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.