by Moss, Brooke
He reached out and plucked a breadcrumb out of the hair next to my cheek. The scent of Triple D’s garage, mingled with soap and something so undeniably musky and male, it made me want to pee my pants surrounded me.
Aw, hell. Maybe I was a little bit crazy about him. But it was only because his Yiayia held the key to preparing the world’s best Greek delicacies for the biggest event Eats & Treats had ever booked. Oh, yeah… and also because Demo was hella hot. But whatever.
He took a step closer, his shadow looming over me. “So tell me, Marisol.”
“Yeah?” My voice came out way breathier than could ever be considered cool.
“Are you trying to seduce me…” Demo’s voice was deep and gravelly, and sent my stomach into a spin cycle. I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off. “Just to score my Yiayia’s recipes?”
“What? No!” I cleared my throat and stepped back from him. “Come on. Don’t be stupid. I’ve got my own recipes. Cómo te atreves a acusarme de eso?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said, polishing off his beer. “Just asking a question.”
“A pretty rude one,” I yelped. And a freakishly accurate one, too.
“You know what I think?” He pointed his bottle at me. “I think you are trying to score the recipes. And I also think you speak Spanish when you’re ticked off, because you think you can get away with saying things that nobody else can understand.”
My hands flew to my hips. “Now, listen here—”
A phone rang in Demo’s pocket—the theme song to the old eighties TV show, Magnum PI, so fitting—and he put up a hand to shush me. Anger bubbled in my chest again. Who the hell did this mechanic think he was?
He looked down at the screen on his phone and winced. “I have to take this.”
I grit my teeth together. “You need—”
He put his hand up again, rendering me speechless. “This is Demo,” he said, turning away from me. “Yeah… yeah… uh huh. Well now really isn’t the time… I’m at a party. What do you mean with who? Some small business thing… Um, no… I said, no.” Demo glanced at me over his shoulder and shrugged. “Listen, I’ll call you later… no, I do care. I… oh, really?”
I tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me? Were we not in the middle of a conversation?”
“Just a second,” Demo said into the phone before turning back to face me. He handed me his empty beer bottle. “Here. And, uh, thanks for the mushroom.”
I stood there, seething, as he took his phone out the exit, leaving me standing alone. Like a fool. Apparently, I’d been dismissed.
Demo-the-mechanic had just taken a booty call right in front of me.
Chapter Seven
“Just go. I’m fine.” Hoisting the overstuffed garbage bag over my shoulder, I gave Lexie a gentle push towards her car.
Fletcher had called—three times—because the baby was refusing to take a bottle, and now she was on the verge of tears. “Are you sure?” she whimpered, unlocking her door. “There’s still so much clean up to do, and we already let the wait staff go.”
“It’s no big deal. I just have to pack up the stuff and mop the kitchen floor.” I gestured at her blouse. “Seriously. Go before your boobs do that freaky leaking thing again. I can’t unsee that, you know.”
Lexie rolled her eyes. “All right. Just be sure to track down that Janis lady. She still owes us three hundred dollars.”
“Three hundred dollars. Got it.” I saluted her and patted the top of the car as she fired up the engine. “Get out of here before my nice streak wears off.”
She rolled out of the Bed & Breakfast parking lot, leaving me in the darkness with the stinky garbage bag. Sighing, I trudged towards the trash bins at the back of the property. My feet were aching so bad I felt like cutting them off and walking on stumps for the rest of the night. And it was a good thing the party was over, because if I listened to one more person talk about the injustices of health care requirements for small business owners, I was going to have to put my head in an oven.
“Come on,” I grumbled, setting down the bag and trying to lift the bin lid, which was apparently made out of lead. I shoved it upward a few times, only to have it slam back down with a bang. “Stupid, worthless, piece of steaming—”
“Need a little help?”
“Oh!” I jumped, knocking over the trash bag at my feet. It was Greg Thomason, who’d apparently not passed out yet, which was a miracle judging by the way he was shuffling towards me in a jagged line. I’d lost sight of him after Demo took his booty call, and assumed he’d caught a cab home to sleep off his wild night with all the neighborhood bookstore and café owners. “Hey there, Greg. You’re still standing?”
He held out his arms, swaying. “Still here. Waiting for my cab, actually.”
“Good call on the cab,” I said, picking the garbage bag back up. “You’re a little wobbly.”
He gestured to the inn. “My friend, Bernie, took my keys. He owns Blinkie’s Flower Shop.”
Nodding, I tried—and failed—to open the lid again. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been in there. Excellent Ecuadorian roses.”
“Right you are, pretty lady!” Greg pointed at me and grinned crookedly. I half expected him to drool out the side of his mouth. Oh wait, he just did.
“Ugh,” I grunted as I tried to throw the bag and open the lid at the same time. “Seriously. It’s like this thing is made for six foot tall bodybuilders only.”
Greg giggled and snorted. “I’m six-foot-two. My ex girlfriend said my feet are like skis.”
“Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?” When I glanced at him, he looked like he was going to cry now. Searching for the much-needed cab, I added, “Foolish girl didn’t even know how good she had it, did she?”
His lopsided smile returned. “She sure didn’t! She doesn’t appreciate me like you do, huh, Caterer Lady?”
I tried to stand on the garbage bag so I could reach the lid more easily, but stumbled. “That’s right. And my name’s Marisol.”
“Marisol… Marisol… Marisol. I like that name.” Greg came closer, and the light from a nearby streetlamp lit his face. There was a red, square mark on his cheek. He would’ve been attractive had he not looked like he’d hit the floor of the restroom at some point this evening. “Hey… you’re havin’ a hard time, aren’t you?”
“You’re perceptive.”
He tilted his head. “Huh?”
Smiling, I stepped off the bag. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’ll bet you are.” Greg went to lean against the dumpster, and missed, stumbling. “Whoopsie.”
“Whoa.” I caught his elbow and helped him right himself. “You all right? Feeling sick, big guy?”
His voice dropped an octave or two. “Feeling randy.”
“Feeling randy?” I let go of his elbow. “Now you’re speaking Austin Powers? Oh, this is rich. Come on, help me get this bin open, and I’ll wait for your cab with you, okay?”
Greg’s eyebrows went up. “You’re coming home with me?”
I snorted. “Not tonight. You, my friend, need to go home and get some sleep.”
He grabbed the lid and swung it open with one toss, his reddened eyes locked on mine. “Don’t want sleep.”
My smile hardened. “It doesn’t matter what you want, Greg. That’s what you need.”
He leaned in close, his breath heavy with the smell of locally brewed beer. “I need some fun tonight, Mary.”
“Marisol,” I told him through grit teeth.
Greg hiccupped. “Whatever.”
“Well, that’s too bad. Because all you’re going to be getting tonight is sleep.” I shoved the garbage bag towards Greg. “Help me hoist this into the bin?”
“Sure, I can.” He ran a hand down the length of my arm before taking hold of the bag. “Is it me, or is there something between us, Mary?”
Releasing a nervous laugh, I helped him shove the bag up the side of the bin, and over the edge.
“The only thing between us right now is the stench of rancid food.”
Greg wiped his hands on his pants. “I don’t want anything between us. ‘Cept skin.” He sniggered and touched my cheek. “What’dya say?”
His hand smelled like garbage and I cringed. “Not a chance. Let’s go call that cab company again.” This poor guy needed to go home and hit the mattress, stat. He was going to feel like a colossal douche in the morning. If he even remembered.
“Why are you playing hard to get?” Greg slurred.
I stepped away from him. “I’m not playing. I really am hard to get.” Actually, I usually wasn’t, but that was beside the point. I’d turned over a leaf, folks. Recognize. Plus, sloppy drunks with tile marks on their faces weren’t my style.
He tilted sideways, and burped. “That’s… stupid.”
I gestured towards the inn. “You’re looking a little green around the gills, buddy. Why don’t you let me make you some coffee inside? I’ve got a Colombian roast that will—”
“Shut up.” Greg’s hand came down on my forearm with a slap. It was with more force than I was expecting, and I gasped. As soon as I stopped talking, his demeanor softened. “Come on. Let’s walk down to Benny’s for a nightcap.”
Jerking my arm away, I clenched my teeth together. This guy was ticking me off now. “No, thank you. I have plans.”
“Oh, come on.” He drug a hand down his face, making his eyes even redder. “You don’t have plans. Give it up.”
I drew a deep breath, then released it slowly. “Go home and get some sleep.”
“Tease,” he spat down at me, his red face glowing in the dim light.
“Gotta go, Greg.” Forcing a tight smile, I sidestepped his arm and headed towards the kitchen door. I didn’t scare around men easily—you can’t remain single and independent into your thirties and not know how to watch out for yourself—but I was sort of rattled. We were back far enough from the street that there weren’t any other people within earshot, the dinner guests were long gone, and the last of my staff had left. It figured.
“Aw… come back.” He groaned.
“No, thank you,” I yelled over my shoulder. I was going to throttle the bartenders the small business bureau hired for the night. They apparently had no concept of when to stop serving someone.
“Hey, bitch!” Greg’s voice cut into the night, and his heavy footsteps thudded on the pavement. “I’m talking to you.”
Picking up my pace, I touched my pocket for my new iPhone. Lexie and Fletcher only lived a few blocks away from the inn, and Fletcher wouldn’t mind coming down here to scare away a persistent drunk. It was rare, but official: Drunk Greg was starting to freak me out.
And true to form, I’d left the damn thing in the kitchen. I was going to have my iPhone surgically connected to my hand first thing tomorrow.
Greg grabbed my shoulder, jerking me backwards. “I said I was talking to you,” he snarled into my ear.
“You need to get your hands off of me.” I twirled around and shoved him in the chest. When he stumbled backwards, I yelled, “Go home and sober up, before I call the cops.”
Greg’s expression morphed from confused, to belligerent, to ticked-off in the span of a half a second. “Call the cops? Call the…” he grabbed my upper arms. Hard. “Who do you think you are?”
“Let go!” I yelped when he gave me a shake.
“Hey! Get your hands off her!”
I heard the deep, gravelly voice before I saw Demo through the corner of my eye. He barreled towards us with his fists clenched at his side, ready to swing.
“Who the…” Greg looked from me, to Demo, then back again. “You sleeping with Antonopolous?”
“I’m not sleeping with anybody,” I growled, wriggling out of his grip. There were red marks just above my elbows that would probably be bruises by morning. Super.
Demo was nose to nose with Greg in an instant. “You like roughing up women?”
“Roughing up? What? What the hell are you talking about?” Greg skittered backward, but Demo followed. “We were just talking.”
“Talking?” Demo’s chest was pressed against Greg’s, and I was pretty sure his biceps were vibrating. “You expect me to believe that?”
Greg laughed, and it came out high pitched and hysterical. “Tell him, Mary. Tell him we were talking.”
“Her name is Marisol,” Demo growled.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t dig your hole any deeper, Greg. We weren’t talking.”
A cab rolled into the parking lot, stopping right beside our little testosterone faceoff. A cabbie with a backwards Mariners cap emerged. “Hey. Everything all right out here? Somebody call a cab?”
I gave Greg’s shoulder a shove. It was a lot easier not to be scared when Demo was here, in all of his puffed up glory. “Yes, sir. Our friend here needs to go home.”
“Come ooon, Demo, you know mmme.” Greg’s voice cracked as he backed away from the hulk of muscle that was my mechanic. “We were jusht hhhaving some fun…”
“Grabbing a woman like that’s not fun.” Demo opened and closed his fists a few times. I thought I could see his heartbeat in the side of his neck. “Never let me catch you acting like that again, or I’ll put you in the ground. Understand?”
Gregs hands went out defensively. “Hey. Whoa. Whatever, man.”
Demo pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the cabbie. “Get him home, and watch him walk in.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, sliding back into the driver’s seat.
Greg fiddled with the door handle a few times before getting it open. “No harm in trying. Boy’s got a right to get laid once in a while.”
I cursed under my breath. This guy was a piece of work.
“Sit down and shut up.” Demo gave him a shove, making Greg flop like a doll.
Greg’s head hit the door when he flopped into the seat. “Ow, dammit. Bros before ho’s, right, buddy?”
“Go home,” Demo ordered. The car door slammed, and Greg rested his forehead against the window, promptly falling asleep.
Demo and I watched in silence as the cab pulled away and left the lot. I couldn’t believe that just happened. In all my years of working and dating, I’d never felt afraid before. Maybe Candace was right when she’d suggested a self-defense class a few years ago. I’d scoffed at the idea then, but now I wish I’d considered it. It would’ve felt increíble to ram my knee so far into Greg’s balls that they popped out his ear canals.
It was then that I realized how hard my heart was thudding in my chest. I pressed my palm to my chest and gulped in a pull of the warm night air. I needed to get a grip. It was just a drunk moron. It didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t in any real danger. Right?
As soon as the cab’s taillights disappeared, Demo turned to me, and put a hand on my shoulder. “You all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” I stepped away from his touch, and fanned myself. Those pesky tears were poking at the backs of my eyes again, and I wasn’t about to let them fall in front of Demo-the-mechanic. “He was hammered. I could’ve taken care of myself.”
He shook his head. “Greg was out of line.”
I waved off Demo’s words. “You didn’t need to do anything. I can handle things.” But my voice shook.
“You’re welcome.” Demo said softly.
Dammit, he felt sorry for me.
“I…” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. “I didn’t need…”
Okay. Between me, myself, and I, that little situation was scary. The way Greg’s moods vacillated between sloppy, goofy drunk and ticked off. The way he’d grabbed me. Twice. What if Demo hadn’t come out of nowhere like that? Would I have been able to fend that creep off?
My eyes filled up and spilled over. “Okay. All right. I’m sorry.” I covered my face with my hands. “Thank you. I appreciate your help, Demo.”
He wrapped his arms around me, tentatively at first, but we melted together quickly enough. Pressing
my face into the worn cotton of his shirt, I cried for a good two or three—maybe five—minutes. His scent, minty soap and the faintest hint of gasoline, danced through my nose,. My shoulders shook as I wept for the first time in more years than I could count, but for some peculiar reason, I didn’t care. It was that odd rush of honesty I seemed to feel every time Demo was around. There was no BS-ing this guy, and as much as I hated it… I loved it, too. It felt good to cry. Maybe I needed it. I don’t know.
“Shhh, it’s okay now,” Demo whispered, his callused hands rubbing a circle between my shoulder blades.
His touch left a trail of tingles on my skin that I didn’t care to admit to anyone.
“I just…” I hiccupped. “I… I…”
“Don’t talk,” Demo instructed, resting his chin on the top of my head. He tightened his arms around me, and I soaked up the warmth his body was exuding. And man, oh, man. Demo was putting off some heat. There was something incredibly comforting about being held by someone as strong and unwavering as Demo Antonopolous. It was like being engulfed by a redwood tree.
“I’m sorry,” I sputtered after crying way longer than was socially acceptable. “I don’t usually do this. I’m usually much more collected, and, um…” I didn’t finish my sentence because Demo tilted his head so that his face was down by my temple, and he sniffed my hair.
Sniffed it.
“Do you have a ride home?” he whispered.
When I pulled back and looked up at Demo, his dark eyes reflected my own face back at me. Instead of his telltale scowl, the corners of his mouth were pointed upward, just the tiniest bit. “I can drive myself,” I said hoarsely. “My car’s right over there.”
He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You’re still shaking. You should let me run you home.”
I wanted Demo to kiss me. Like… badly.
I wanted to know if his face was as rough as it looked, or if he was a gentle giant underneath that tough guy with a massive chip on his shoulder exterior. I wanted to know what he tasted like. And what his lips on my lips felt like, or what his lips felt like on my skin…
