Chapter 4
Millie
We finish our food quickly and I head to the bathroom before getting back in his truck. I know he isn’t the kind of guy I’ll be with long-term--he took me to a dive bar that I’d never have set foot in otherwise. I can just imagine taking him to dinner at my father’s club. That would be the day.
This is happening. Really happening. And I need to give myself a pep talk before I take him home.
Before I make it into the bathroom, the waitress who served us stops me in the hall.
“You going out with Mox?” she asks, lips pursed, arms crossed.
“Uh, not really,” I say. “He’s just giving me a ride home.”
She snorts. “I bet he is.”
I narrow my eyes. “Look, I wasn’t trying to--”
The waitress lifts her hands in defeat. “I wasn’t trying to start shit, either. Just wanted to warn you he’s slept with half the town and never calls a woman back. Thought you’d want the heads up.”
“Okay, well, thanks. But I don’t need a warning. We aren’t anything.”
Truth is, I don’t care who he has slept with and I’m not surprised, either. It’s honestly none of my business. Besides, sounds like I want the same thing as he does--a little bit of fun. Nothing more, nothing less.
And maybe this sounds terrible, but the fact that he is so experienced makes me a little giddy. I want a man who has capable, experienced hands to take care of me tonight.
Grateful the bathroom has only one stall, I lock the door and look at myself in the mirror.
At least I put on a cute dress today. I pull up the skirt and examine my panties. Okay, not the cutest, but not terrible. Black bra, black undies--that’ll do. I pull out lipstick from my purse and slide the soft red color over my lips. I pull out a compact and run fresh powder over my nose and cheeks.
I’ve only ever slept with one man-- my college boyfriend Bryan. He was just like his name sounds: basic.
And Moxon is not basic. Not at all.
His eyes are a warm brown, inviting me in, and while his self-assured cocky vibe gave me a wary first impression, I can see now that he was leading with his ego to hide a softer side. The cat-owner side.
And that is the side of him that makes me feel okay about sleeping with a man I just met. My life is predictable. Maybe a little excitement will give me some new material to work with on my greeting cards.
Leaving the bathroom, the nerves are gone. And when I see him outside the restaurant, leaning against his truck, his arms crossed, biceps curled, dimples making me melt--I know there is nothing to be nervous about.
It’s not like I’ll fall for this man, we’re just having fun. I cross the parking lot with a smile.
He pulls me to him, the sky is now dark and a chill in the air causes me to lean in closer, appreciating the warmth he offers. His strong arms wrap around me, and I breathe in deeply, intoxicated by the smell of his work shirt. He smells like a real man--sweat mixed with aftershave, leather, and cinnamon. If you bottled this smell, you’d make a million dollars.
“You sniffing me out?” he asks.
I laugh, looking up at him. “Sorry. You just smell really, really...”
“Like I need a shower?” He gives me a half grin. “It was a long day at work. Don’t judge.”
I shake my head. “No, not that. You smell good. You smell amazing, actually.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “You smell okay yourself.”
I laugh again, appreciating how comfortable this man is. He isn’t jittery, with sweaty palms like some men I’ve gone out with. He seems perfectly at ease with me in his arms, like he has every intention of keeping me there.
“What are you thinking about? I lost you, sugar cheeks.”
I snort. “The name’s Millie, remember?”
“Mmmhhmm, I remember something about that.” He pulls me around, so my back is against his truck. “But these cheeks of yours need to be mentioned,” he says slowly, squeezing my ass.
I gasp in shock, in excitement. “Is that so?”
He nods, his mouth on my ear, breathing warmly against me. “It certainly is.”
“Have you always been so confident?” I ask, my neck craning, my body opening to what is bound to happen shortly.
He looks down at me. My body has curves and I don’t exactly count my calories. I’m a woman, not a waif. But with Moxon I don’t feel myself inhaling, sucking in my gut and trying to be something I’m not. I’m not trying to be smaller than I am. Moxon makes me feel like who I am is just right.
“I know who I am,” he tells me. “What I want and why. Right now, I want you.”