Better With You (Better Love 2)

Me:You should really work on combining your thoughts into fewer messages. Condense. Sending multiple texts in such quick succession makes you look impatient and excitable.

His reply is immediate.

Unknown:Maybe you make me impatient and excitable.

I snort and take a page out of Jesse’s book by sending the face palm emoji.

Unknown:I’m serious.

Unknown:I’m usually much more calm and cool.

Unknown:What are you doing right now?

Whoa, okay.

Wasn’t expecting the “wyd” text so soon. I weigh my options. I could text back, give in, and be done with this whole thing after tonight. Or, I could string him along a little longer. Do the flirty texts for a few more days until I get bored or impatient and fall to the inevitable fuck and run. Can’t get played if you’re the one dealing the cards, after all.

I’m having fun with him, but I guess the sooner we get this over with, the better. Nothing good comes from dragging it out, and that text he just sent makes his intentions crystal clear. Not that I’m surprised. Maybe a little disappointed, but no harm, no foul.

I cover my wine glass with a piece of plastic wrap and put it in the fridge for later, then go into my room and change into a pair of jeans and a band tee. I run my fingers through my hair, swipe on some eyeliner and mascara, and then text him back.

Me: What do you have in mind?

It’s justafter seven when I pull Baby into the parking lot of Quick Stop and spot Alex standing outside the store entrance. He throws one hand up in a wave, and I look him over through my helmet shield before getting off my bike.

Damn it, he looks good.

Grey joggers, a Butler University baseball t-shirt, and a backward ball cap. His hair is tucked behind his ears, and I itch with the urge to run my fingers through it. I bet it’s as soft as it is shiny.

Before it’s obvious that I’m ogling, I swing my leg over Baby, lock up my helmet, and stride over to him. When I’m a few steps from the curb, his feet catch my eye, and I can’t hold back my laughter.

“Oh my god.” I laugh. “I did not peg you for a camo Croc guy.”

He crinkles his nose with a grin and wiggles one foot at me. “These are fucking comfy,” he defends. “And they’re easy to clean, and durable, and convenient.”

“Nope,” I say with a smile as I walk toward him. “I will never, ever be supportive of that shoe choice. Especially not with joggers.” I giggle again, and he shrugs it off, smile still plastered on his face. He’s completely confident in his shoe wear. I bet he’s completely confident in just about everything he does.

“Nice bike,” he says when I step up on the curb.

“Thanks.” I look back at her over my shoulder. “2012 Honda Rebel 250. Her name’s Baby.”

“Yeah? Like ‘nobody puts Baby in a corner,’ Baby?”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Exactly like that Baby.” First Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and now Dirty Dancing? This guy keeps surprising me.

“Is there a story there?” he asks, and I nod as we walk into the convenience store.

“The shop where I got her, she was tucked up in the back corner, forgotten. Neglected.” I shake my head at the memory. “She didn’t deserve that, being ignored. So, I rescued her. Fixed her up a bit, and now she’s my Baby.”

I see him watching me out of my peripheral, so I keep my eyes forward as we weave through the small store. Alex grabbed a shopping basket, and he’s leading us to the baking aisle.

“That’s fitting,” he says after a breath. “Frances Houseman was definitely a rebel, too. Defying her dad and going against societal expectations like she did.”

I stop in my tracks. “I’ve said the exact same thing.” My smile is huge, and his answering proud grin is adorably sexy. “Crossing the class barrier when you’re surrounded by a bunch of stuck-up pricks takes some guts, especially when you consider how close she was with her dad.”

“She didn’t want to disappoint him, but she was in love with Johnny.” I roll my eyes at his love comment. He’s not wrong, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction when the L word comes up in conversation. Outside of movies, books, and my roommate Ivy’s life, that shit just isn’t real. I change the subject when we halt in front of the boxed cake mixes.

“Okay, Butch. I give. What are we doing here? You gonna steal something else?”

“I want cupcakes.” He shrugs. “Thought maybe you’d want to help me make some.”

I pop a brow. “You want my help making cupcakes?”

“Sure.” His smile is playful, and he grabs the back of his neck again in that stupidly cute boyish way. Ugh, fine. I’ll make cupcakes with him.

“Okay,” I nod, “let’s make some cupcakes.”

He grabs a box of funfetti cake mix, a jar of fudge frosting, a container of colorful sprinkles, and a packet of cupcake liners and drops them all in the basket. I can’t help but giggle at how childish his choices are. This guy is a beast, and he grabs funfetti cupcake mix. And a container of sprinkles. A-freaking-dorable.

I grab a jar of maraschino cherries and drop it in the basket, too. He eyes my choice and flashes me a smirk, and I shrug. “I like cherries.”

After he pays, we head back out to the parking lot, and he takes out his phone.

“I took the campus bus here, but the next one isn’t for another hour since it’s a Sunday night. I’m gonna cue up an Uber.”