Drop Dead Gorgeous

Blake’s eyebrow rises dangerously as he cuts his eyes to follow Bubba’s hasty exit. But he pushes one of the baskets my way. The aroma of fresh meat wafts up, and my stomach grumpily reminds me that I didn’t eat lunch today, so I ignore whatever eye battle Blake and Bubba have going on this time in favor of digging into my dinner.

“Good?” Blake asks a moment later. I look up as I swallow my fourth bite to find him simply watching me.

I grunt a positive response and take a way-too-big bite that probably makes me look like a carnivorous monster.

Am I trying to scare him off? Maybe a little.

Instead, he picks up his burger and takes an even bigger bite, grinning around the mouthful and then saying, “Good.”

A piece of shredded lettuce falls out and he shoves it back in his mouth with a thumb, swiping at a dab of mustard too. It's actually adorable somehow, making him seem less perfect than his carefully styled blond hair and business casual outfit originally suggested.

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, and I get the bulk of my burger down. Thank goodness, because we’re interrupted by a guy who I’m glad didn’t drive Silas home. In other words, a bit drunk and wobbly on his feet. “Hey, Morticia, wanna dance?”

He’s chuckling like the idea is ridiculous even though he’s the one asking, and I nearly choke. I have a momentary fear that I’m going to need the Heimlich maneuver, but luckily, patting myself hard on the chest does the trick. My throat is still raw and rough-feeling when I ask, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll make your hands rot where we touch?”

I wiggle my fingers toward his and he jerks them up to his chest protectively. “Or maybe I’ll accidentally brush against a certain part when we sway and then it’ll fall off?”

I make finger quotation marks when I say accidentally and lift one brow threateningly. His hands drop from his chest to cup his dick through his jeans.

“Not funny, Morticia.”

I’m the proverbial dare, the brush with death his drunk friends have challenged him to risk, but yet I’m the ‘not funny’ one. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Blake is watching with interest, seemingly keeping one eye on me and one eye on Drunk Dude, but not in a cross-eyed way. Though he’d probably look cute even with crossed eyes.

Focus, Zoey!

I’m done with this tonight. All I wanted was a quiet evening at home, and barring that, a quick bite and beer with Holly. Somehow, it’s turned into a pseudo-date, even though I don’t date, and I still haven’t done the paperwork for the accident.

I sigh deeply and turn my attention to Drunk Dude. I glare at him for a few seconds, and then out of nowhere, I flinch toward him and bark, “Boo!”

He jumps a foot in the air and backward at the same time like a cat that got spooked by a cucumber. I laugh instantly, not bothering to hide it this time. Screw anyone who thinks I’m up to no good.

But Drunk Dude’s jump is less than graceful, and his landing is even worse when he stumbles to get his feet back under himself. He doesn’t even get close to making it, his boots slickly fighting for purchase on the dirt floor. He runs in place at an awkward angle like the Roadrunner for a second and then sprawls out on the ground.

As soon as he’s down, he’s scrambling away from me on his hands and feet like a crab, pushing a chair out of the way. “Leave me alone, Morticia.”

One of his buddies grabs Drunk Dude under the arms to help him off the floor and drag him further from me like I’m some great threat, but never fear, he sure keeps mouthing incoherently.

“You came over here, interrupted my dinner, and acted like I’m a middle school cootie dare, but I’m the bad guy?” I ask, acid and venom dripping from every word, even though I know the answer already.

All conversation stops, and eyes land on me from all over the room. They’re watching me as though I’m going to shoot Force lightning from my fingertips on demand.

I sigh, still surprised somehow, even though I know better. I wipe my mouth with a paper towel and then wad it up to drop it to the tabletop. “Thank you, Mr. Hale. This was . . . nice,” I hedge. It was, right up until it all went to shit with fly cookies on top. “I’ll be sure to do the paperwork for you tonight. You should hear from the county clerk tomorrow.”

His mouth opens to say something, probably to argue with me because he thinks he should, but I hold up a staying hand. I’ve reached my limit for the night. A woman can only stand being a pariah so much. I walk to the bar quickly, gritting my teeth as people literally back away from me like I’m contagious with the worst possible disease they can imagine, and lay a fifty-dollar bill on the wooden top.