Two Wrongs (Meant To Be 1)

The girl from the bar with the sexy retro vibe and a body built for fucking is sitting two tables away. She’s fucking stunning. I can fucking smell her sweetness and I’m about to come unglued. And all I want to do is end this nightmare and take her back to my place to cook her pancakes.

That’s not all I want to do, but there’s something about her that makes me want to do something simple for her. Sweet. Syrup and chocolate chips. Whipped cream and strawberries.

And not all on the pancakes.

“Can I clear your plate?” asks the waitress. The woman deserves a fucking medal; she’s showed incredible restraint dealing with the sparkling red monster sitting across from me.

I give her a nod, thanking her silently for at least trying to stay polite.

“Does it look like I’m done eating?” Caroline rolls her eyes, and her fake lashes do this weird tug on her upper lids. Creepy as fuck.

“Is that a yes?” the waitress retorts, and I snort rubbing my hands on the napkin in my lap feeling the half hard thickness of my johnson that is focused on the juicy morsel two tables over. Christ, if this wasn’t a favor for my grandmother, I would have ended this bullshit right there in the bar.

Caroline flutters a hand in front of her face in a gesture of dismissiveness, then purses her lips. “I know it’s, like, impossible to find good help these days, but like, where did they find this one? IHOP? Give me a break.

She’s the full package. A pain in the ass who insults IHOP. I won’t be making her any pancakes, that’s for sure.

I wave the waitress off before I lose my cool.

“I mean,” she goes on as I pinch the bridge of my nose and curse, “like am I right, or am I right?”

“Like…shut the fuck up,” I snarl slamming my palm into the table, making her jump and drawing looks from the tables around us. “She’s been nothing but fucking polite with you and you…”

You’re fucking insufferable. I’ve dealt with assholes before. I am a professional asshole wrangler. But right now, she’s keeping me from doing what I want to do, which is dragging the brown-haired pinup princess from her table and have my way with her. And her pancakes.

Caroline looks like I slapped her. “Excuse me?”

I click my tongue against my teeth and throw down my napkin. “You’re excused.”

Caroline’s gone and I’m at the doorway to the bar now, eavesdropping hard core, and watching Sweet Cheeks eat a panna cotta so slowly that there’s a real possibility I’m going to panna-fucking-cotta in my pants myself.

She’s with an ill-dressed monotone guy. He’s done 98% of the talking and so far I know two things: it’s a first date and he’s a total asshat.

It’s gonna be the last date as well, whether she knows it yet or not, because the idea of her on a date with anyone other than me has me ready to yank this guy’s testicles from his body and shove them up his ass. If he so much as touches her, I’m going to lose my shit. Full-on, alpha-male, five-o’clock-breaking-news style.

I grind my teeth together as he tosses her a disappointed look and starts to speak. “I mean, this is a nice dinner I’m buying you. More than nice.” He leans back in his chair, pressing his hands on top of his thighs, snapping his tongue over his front teeth. “The least you could have done is put in some effort.”

The drop-dead gorgeous brunette’s jaw drops. God, even her fucking lipstick makes me hard. “Effort?” She screws up one side of her face and scratches her temple and I’m banking on her putting her fork between his eyes instead she hisses back at him. “You want to talk to me about effort?”

“You picked the place, expensive place, I assumed you would…” He makes a disgusted gesture with his hand toward where she sits. “Be appreciative. At least try to look like you’re going to give me something that makes it worth the price of your meal. Your dress looks like it’s from a thrift store.”

Her silver-green eyes flash. It doesn’t fucking matter where the dress is from. It looks spectacular on her. “You’re a total piece of shit, you know that?” she throws back as I silently cheer her on still rooting for some silverware tossing. “If this food wasn’t so good, you’d be wearing this panna cotta all over your hillbilly button down. NASCAR? NASCAR? Really?”

“I think this evening is over,” he says, throwing his napkin which hits her on the chest, “You entitled little…”

I’m a man possessed, stomping his way. The restaurant has fallen silent, but I don’t give a fuck. Let them TikTok what comes next. Just fucking let them.

I lean down close to his ear. “You’re fucking right this evening is over. And you have three seconds to apologize to the lady, then get the fuck out of here.”