Rich Player (The Dirty Thirty Pledge 3)

“Exchanged numbers?” she asks.

I shrug. “Neither of us realized that we lived so close to each other, and we have great sex. At least for now, neither of us wants to stop that.”

“God, I’m so jealous,” she says. “You’re fucking a hot millionaire, and it was all by chance!” I start to laugh, and just then the owner of the shop comes in, so we go about our routines to get our stations ready. I’m not about to share that with her, especially when hopefully I’ll be leaving soon.

I get caught up in the ebb and flow of the day and before I know it, it’s five o’clock and I’m stretching and putting away my tools for the day. My body has loosened up from all the standing, but I’m still sore. Still deliciously reminded of last night.

Glenn is a bit of a mystery still. He’s told me almost nothing about himself, except the little tidbit that he was poor when he was young. He’s so different from any other guy I’ve slept with. And miles away from Alex. Maybe that’s what makes him so appealing. But something about him makes me want to know more.

I say my goodbyes to Liz and head out to my car when I hear a voice. “Fancy running into you here.”

Turning, Glenn is leaning against the wall of the building, and the smile that pops onto my face is completely genuine. It’s like my body just associates him with pleasure. “What are you doing here? I never told you where I worked.”

“I googled you,” he says.

My smile falters. “Oh.” If he googled me, then he knows who my family is. That’s going to be fun.

He studies my face. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Now is about the time where most people who find about my family ask when they can meet my parents so they can get in on all that Tennessee socialite action.”

Glenn makes a face. “Sorry to disappoint. I was just hoping to take you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” At the mention of food, my stomach growls. “That sounds good to me.”

“What’s good around here? I’m not exactly familiar with the town.”

“Come on,” I say. “Follow me and I’ll show you the best place in town.”

When I get out of the car in front of a building that looks like it’s falling apart, I watch Glenn’s face when he gets out of his car. It’s all skepticism. “This is a restaurant?”

“Sure is,” I say. “Trust me, this isn’t where I kill you and hide your body. They just spend the money on the inside of the place.”

He follows me inside, and I savor the look on his face. On the look of anyone’s face who walks into Jane’s for the first time. Inside, this broken down building is a picturesque Italian restaurant with an absolutely fantastic view of the river that runs through both Green Hills and Eastborough.

The tables are small and intimate, all the furniture exquisitely built. Everything inside is so perfect that you could be walking into a five-star restaurant in Nashville. But the exterior keeps it a secret that’s just for this town and those lucky enough to know about it.

Which now Glenn does.

“See?”

He nods. “I never would have called that.”

“It’s the best.”

It’s not super busy tonight, and a hostess shows us to a table near the back with a view. I’ve been here so many times that I know exactly what I’m getting. Their spaghetti bolognese is the best I’ve ever tasted, and I don’t care if it’s a simple dish. Things can be simple and amazing.

A memory flashes in my mind of when Alex and I came here with my parents. I ordered the spaghetti, and they laughed. They have amazing things here like salmon stuffed tortellini and you’re going to order spaghetti?

I shake my head to clear the memory, but the shame lingers in the blush on my skin. I should have known then that something was wrong with a man who would take my parents side about something as simple as pasta.

“Are you okay?” Glenn has reached out, his hand over mine on the table. The sudden contact brings me back to the present.

I swallow and paste on a smile. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he grins, “because I need you to tell me what’s good here.”

“Uhh…” I hesitate. He won’t be the same. He won’t shame me for liking what I like. Not after what I’ve asked him to do to me and with me. But my stomach still clenches as I speak. “My favorite is the spaghetti bolognese. I think it’s one of the best things there is. But you probably don’t want to get something that simple.”

He shrugs, “Why not? Spaghetti sounds good to me.” And when the waiter appears at our table he smoothly orders us white wine and two orders of the spaghetti bolognese, and I’m left staring at him, a warm glow filling my chest.