I lost my shit when I opened her photos and discovered a selfie of my mystery Cat Woman on her phone. It took me a full day to recover from that alone. The revelations that followed had me searching frantically for a safe, quiet space to read like an adolescent school girl with her first romance novel.
“Hi, Dallas!”
I glance backward and spot the screamer. Amanda something or other. Great legs. No sense of humor. No thanks.
Her smile looks painful. Jerking a chin in return, I give her my back and place my order. A short while later, eye on the prize, I make my way to the table where Rea is busy trying to get back into Bailey’s good graces.
“No, really, make yourself at home, Reynolds. We’re so psyched that you would bestow upon us the gift of your illustrious company,” says the tall skinny blonde, the one Brock is always hanging around. I think her name is Zoe.
Why he hangs with any chick is a mystery to me when he has no intention of touching them. Dude likes his balls on the cool side of blue, I guess.
“Fancy seeing you here, Bailey. We were just talking about you,” I say as I hand a large take-out cup to Rea.
“Dall––”
“What?” I say, tempering the urge to chuckle. My beautiful face, the one that God and my momma gave me, is the picture of innocence.
“Don’t,” Reagan warns. My boy is strung tight. God, I hope he gets laid soon.
Feigning more false innocence, I shrug. Meanwhile, my eyes take a lap around the table and come to rest on Dora. All by design of course. I’m hunting kittens today.
As I stare at her, her eyes flicker to me and away. Her full, glossy lips purse. Wrapped around her cup, her small hands clutch and release, short nails painted a dark color tapping against it.
Somebody looks guilty.
“Do I know you?”
She squirms under my intense examination, doing everything in her power to avoid direct eye contact. A deep flush works up her neck, a marked contrast against the white t-shirt. Damn, she’s cute.
In other news, I can feel the collective curiosity of her friends on me and their suspicions are not misplaced.
Bailey isn’t quite sure what to make of my behavior yet. She knows me pretty well with all the time she spends filming the team so she’s not assuming the worst yet. Blake Allyn, who I know from a public speaking class we both took, is still reserving judgement. But the other one, Zoe Mayfield, that chick is a house burner. Meaning, you cross her and she’ll burn down your house with you in it. Judging by her expression, she’s already made up her mind about me and it’s not good. This, of course, only encourages me to continue.
“Weren’t you at that Theta UCLA mixer? Cat Woman, right? With the vinyl getup and the red lips?” Fuck if this isn’t an Oscar worthy performance.
Kitten just went from sporting a cherry stain on her cheeks to a third degree burn.
Zoe scoffs. “Are you high, Van Zant?”
That means one of two things. Either her friends are covering for her or––they don’t know.
Dora’s honey-brown eyes finally lift and connect with mine. “W-we have class together.”
And there’s my answer––they don’t know. I make my way to her side of the booth and sit as close as I possibly can, stretching my arm out over the back of the bench.
“Russian Lit,” I muse leaning in. This is the most fun I’ve ever had with clothes on since I hit puberty.
“English Lit,” Dora is quick to correct.
“Right, that’s what I said.” And the more I stare, the more she squirms. “I know your name…Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me…Mmm, I know it.” My eyes narrow. I tap my lips with my index finger, doing my best to sell it. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.”
“That’s D-Dory. My name is Dora.”
“Huh.” Fighting a grin now. “I guess that makes you an explorer.”
“And I guess that m-makes you unoriginal.”
She’s got more guts than I initially surmised. Even better. Hand braced against the back of the bench, I hover over her, and she reacts by subtly shrinking away.
“Van Zant, step off my girl. You’re making her uncomfortable,” the Zoe chick orders.
“It’s fine,” Dora mutters.
“No. It’s not,” Zoe insists. When I don’t move fast enough for her liking, her stare sharpens. “Now.”
“Chill, mama cat,” I say and lean back. “Kitten here has claws. She can speak for herself.” Which, to my growing delight, is absolutely true.
“Kitten?” Dora and Zoe repeat in tandem. Dora seems genuinely surprised while Zoe’s expression is less favorable.
“Isn’t that right, Kitten?”
Zoe fake-gags. “I just threw up in my mouth.”
I gotta say I’m a little disappointed in the Brock’s taste in women.
“S-stop calling me that.”
“See?” I tip my head in Dora’s direction, a self-satisfied smirk on my face that I know will get under the blonde’s skin. Also called a twofer.