Arm Candy

by Jessica Lemmon

  “What about the blonde?” I blurt.

  His eyebrows come together, then slide back to neutral. His slow grin tells me what I need to know, but he says it aloud anyway. “I’m only interested in redheads now.”

  Heat blooms on my cheeks and my shoulders melt. I’m inches away from swooning but manage to keep my cool.

  “Gracie. When?”

  I give in and answer. “As soon as tonight and as late as Sunday after eight.”

  He releases his hold on his credit card and I make quick work of charging him. The flutter in my belly intensifies.

  “Tonight,” he says, signing the receipt with a flourish. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “I have to change first.”

  “No you don’t.” He hands over my pen and I take it. “You’re perfect.”

  Then he’s gone.

  Across the room, the perky blonde who spoke to him earlier tracks his every step outside.

  Sorry, honey, I think with a hefty dose of smugness.

  Davis is taking me out tonight.

  Chapter 8

  Davis

  I left McGreevy’s to take care of a few things for tonight before returning to fetch my date. Grace is sitting on the patron side of the bar, an empty plate in front of her.

  When I walk in, she’s looking at her phone. She doesn’t notice I’m standing next to her until I rest my hand on the back of her neck.

  She starts, but then her surprise fades into a warm smile. Like she’s glad to see me. Damn, I like that.

  “Sorry to make you wait, Gracie Lou.” I give her neck a gentle squeeze. “You ate before our date?”

  “Just a salad.” She rests her arms over the purse in her lap, phone in hand. “Is that okay?”

  “Totally okay.” Where we’re going there’s only small plates. “Ready for your big date?”

  She rolls sparkling jade eyes. “The dare was for one date, Davis.”

  “I know,” I deadpan. “If memory serves, you owe me two hundred dollars.”

  Black lashes close over the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. The color is natural. When she spent the night with me she didn’t remove contact lenses or use a bottle of eye drops.

  I offer my palm and she slides prettily off the barstool. Over her shoulder, the blonde from earlier glares. I recognized her standing there when I walked in, her eyes on me the second I entered McGreevy’s. Just when I think Grace didn’t notice me noticing, she corrects my assumption.

  “Changing your mind about which one of us to take out?” Her hand is in mine as she turns to look over her shoulder, not being the least bit casual about it. Grace shrugs. “I would understand. Blondes are a hard habit to break.”

  Grace doesn’t feel the confidence she’s portraying. I watched her earlier. She was an inch away from hissing and swiping a paw at the blonde. Can’t say I didn’t like that reaction. Hell, when I spotted her talking to Dax, my neck prickled too.

  “I have enough habits,” I tell her. “I’m shaking things up a bit.”

  Her easy smile falters before she recovers with a turn of quick wit. “You want shaken, baby, you’ve come to the right girl. I’m a professional mixologist, don’t you know?”

  “Oh, I know.” I snag her leather jacket from the barstool and hold it out for her to slip her arms into. She murmurs about how I’m “such a gentleman” and I let her tease me. I know she appreciated that token move. Especially in front of the blonde from earlier.

  To set the record straight, the blonde was asking if I was busy later and I turned her down. I’ve seen her in here before but never approached her. If it weren’t for Gracie’s challenge for me to take out a redhead instead, I wonder if I’d have taken the blonde up on her offer. Probably. That sounds like me. But as I hold the door open for Grace, my palm settled on the swell of one of her hips, I have to say, the blonde doesn’t appeal.

  Maybe my grandmother was wrong and a leopard can change its spots.

  At the time she made that assessment, she wasn’t talking about me. She was referring to my mother, who left me at the hospital with my comatose father when I was nine years old.

  A motorcycle accident had landed him in a hospital bed, and my mother, who never was one for sticking through difficult times, left the room to grab a coffee and never came back. It wasn’t the first time she bolted and I ended up in the care of my grandmother, but it was the last time she left. I never saw her after that.

  Fast-forward to my wedding day six years ago, Hanna not showing up, and it wasn’t any wonder that I had an allergy to both redheads and commitment.

  Hence the blondes. Hence the packages. For Grace I made one hell of an exception.

  “Where are we going?” Grace asks, her husky, sexy voice slicing into my brain.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” I lead her to my car, where she slides into the leather seat.

  Once we’re navigating the one-way streets of downtown, I clue her in on our destination.

  “I had the idea this morning after you left. I made a call to Bubbly Café and finagled some last-minute reservations.”

  “Bubbly Café? I thought that place sold fancy candy or something.”

  “They host bands, mostly. And serve a fantastic double espresso.”

  “With a name like ‘Bubbly’ you’d think they sold gum, or at least champagne.”

  “You have the champagne part right,” I tell her, giving her a hint.

  “And what are we doing there tonight? Did John Mayer decide to pop in?”

  “No, he’s busy.” I hang a left and draw out the anticipation some. I like surprising her.

  “Hmm. Johnny Depp? He’s in a band with Alice Cooper, I heard.”

  I suck air though my teeth. “So close.”

  “Really?” Her voice goes up an octave. “Wait. You’re not serious.”

  “You’re learning.” I sneak a look over at her.

  She sags in the seat, lifting her arms and dropping them into her lap for effect. “I give!”

  “We’re taste-testing. And you already guessed correctly.” I park at the curb and climb out, but by the time I reach the passenger door, Grace is standing on the sidewalk.

  “Champagne.” Her chin is elevated, her voice a soft sigh. Twinkle lights festoon the tops of the windows on either side of a green door. Etched into the glass are the words BUBBLY CAFÉ. CELEBRATE EVERY DAY.

  Grace lets out a little yip and wraps her arms around one of mine. “I love champagne. I’m not much of a connoisseur, but I’m willing to learn.” She pauses to give me the side eye as I grasp the doorknob. “I guess you know that after the other night.”

  “You clued me in.” I smile as pink dusts her cheekbones. In pillow talk the morning after, she mentioned how sorry she was that we hadn’t finished our champagne the night before. She also mentioned that she never had a reason to drink it. She shouldn’t have to have a reason to drink champagne, and so here we are. On a random Wednesday, drinking champagne.

  The crowd is densely packed into the tight room, and I hand over our tickets. We’re seated in the back left corner, far away from the barista-slash-bartender who is presenting each vintage. There are six to try, and they pass out plates of Brie, crackers, fruit, and chocolate squares to each of us. By the fourth taste, Grace is giggly and stealing chocolate off my plate. After the sixth, half the crowd dissipates. Of the half who are left, half of them buy a bottle to take home while the rest of us settle in with refilled glasses.

  Or ice cream.

  Yes, Bubbly’s has an ice cream counter. They offer whole-cream, goat’s-milk, and dairy-free ice cream. Each one is available in vanilla and chocolate, and that’s it. If you want to get fancy, you can have them put a scoop of candy or a squirt of peanut butter sauce on top. But the main draw of this place is the bar—and the coffee, which it’s too late for but I ordered anyway.

  Living on the edge is my new thing.

  “What a cool place. Who knew you had this in your bag of tricks?”
<
br />   “I don’t spend every night at McGreevy’s, you know.” I dig into my goat’s-milk vanilla with strawberries and pecans. “I have layers.”

  Grace passed on the ice cream, but she ordered another tall glass of the third champagne we tried—Château de…something or other.

  “Want a bite?” I offer the spoon.

  “No thanks,” she answers, but steals a strawberry slice. I scold her with my eyes as she licks her thumb, dragging the digit slowly from her pursed lips.

  Damn.

  Everything she does reminds me of having sex with her. Grace doesn’t taste like cotton candy. More like sin and spice. My dick gives a hopeful twitch.

  “You paid attention about the champagne,” she says.

  I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I know it is. I take a huge bite to deter her. It doesn’t deter her and gives me a minor brain freeze, so lose-lose on that move. When I recover, I confess.

  “I paid attention about the champagne.”

  She smiles, pleased.

  “You mentioned you rarely had a reason to indulge. I received a newsletter a week or so ago announcing this tasting, and then you told me you were available tonight. We don’t always need a reason to celebrate, Gracie.”

  Her expression softens, her top teeth pressing into her bottom lip. She shifts in her seat before munching on a cracker left over from the tasting. After she chews, takes another drink of her champagne and swallows.

  “You’re…thoughtful.”

  “You’re welcome.” She didn’t exactly thank me, but I can tell she’s grateful that I listened and acted on it. It’s rare for a guy to behave unselfishly. Selfishness is inherent in our genes. It just so happens I pay attention to shit like that. Not so I can get laid or be memorable but because it’s the decent thing to do.

  Grace touches my hand. “Thank you.”

  We sit like that for a few beats, her expression cautious and vulnerable. Suddenly our date feels like a bigger deal than either of us anticipated.

  Like the night we spent together. Great sex was expected, but the connection…We both noticed the potential and then backed the hell off.

  Backing off isn’t what I want any longer.

  “Anyway.” I break eye contact and scrape the ice cream from the bottom of my bowl. The urge to put us back on familiar ground is strong.

  At a loss for more to say, I laugh instead, the sound uncomfortable. I hope she didn’t notice, but one look at her tight-lipped smile tells me otherwise.

  She noticed.

  Grace

  There may as well be sirens blaring over my head for how uncomfortable I feel right now. Davis is great, and Bubbly’s has a fantastic atmosphere, both cozy and retro, warm and relaxing. The siren blare is because Davis is quickly turning into a man I want to see beyond a handful of dates. That’s not how I do things.

  Like. Ever.

  Not that I go out with men predisposed to dumping them, but it’s my comfort zone. Being disappointed isn’t new territory for me. I eye Davis over the rim of my champagne glass, letting the bubbles tickle my nose.

  He’s not disappointing me. He’s impressing me.

  I’m not sure how to handle a man who’s impressing me.

  I set my glass down and an employee takes our plate and Davis’s empty bowl and espresso cup and then asks if we’d like refills. I decline and Davis orders a water. I’m not convinced he even likes champagne. Which means he arranged this whole tasting for me.

  We share an eye lock similar to the ones we’ve shared before. I swear I see the faint shimmer of his soul before I blink and drink from my glass. I don’t typically gaze into a guy’s soul. Hell, had you asked me not too long ago, I’d have questioned whether or not they have them.

  Uncharted territory. Once again.

  “Tell me about the Davis Platinum,” I blurt as he lifts his water glass to his lips. His eyebrows rise as he swallows. He licks his lips and my dirty mind fills with images of him between my legs effortlessly wringing orgasms from me. It’s not an easy image to get out of my head, and the ache between my legs becomes harder to assuage.

  “Why do you want to hear the packages now?” he asks.

  Great question. One I can’t answer truthfully because the truth is that sleeping with Davis one time captivated me. By my calculations, a second time would merely satisfy me, and the third time I’ll be underwhelmed. We’ve had a streak of luck, but no one can keep it going forever.

  It’s the old “get it out of our systems” theory. Once the shine wears off, we can call it quits and no one has to feel bad about it. I can go back to serving Davis Sam Adams and giving him hell, and he can go back to picking up a sorority sister with whom to decorate his bedsheets. It’s the circle of life. Anything outside of that is messing with the natural order of things.

  A pang of longing radiates deep in my gut at the idea of his going back to serial dating. Which means we’ve become more serious than I intended. Serious boyfriend-girlfriend stuff is doomed from the start. We all know that. If there’s no Mr. Right (and there isn’t), then why delude ourselves? Distraction is okay. Distraction with an end date. A predetermined one.

  “I was remiss in not choosing a package,” I tell him, taking control of this situation before it spirals out of control. “I’ll choose one now.”

  “What happened to being spontaneous?”

  “We can still be spontaneous,” I hedge.

  “Platinum.” He breathes out a sigh of resistance. “What about deluxe?”

  “Well, we’ve surpassed that.”

  “You don’t know what it is, Gracie Lou. How do you know we’ve surpassed it?” He sounds impatient, but since he’s indulging me, I continue.

  “Fine. What’s the deluxe?”

  “The deluxe is our most popular package.” He rubs his hands together and I bite back a smile.

  I will choose a package tonight no matter what. What Davis and I have will come to an end. Once I’m in control of when that is, I can relax and enjoy myself.

  Waiting for the proverbial dropping shoe is not my idea of fun.

  “The Davis, as you know, is a date, hold the eggplant.”

  “Except no literal holding of the eggplant.”

  “Right. Can’t really go back to not holding it once you’ve held it, can you?” His eyes twinkle with mischief.

  “No, I suppose not.” I grin at him, liking the ease of this conversation. No soul-staring or wondering. Just discussing our future and its black-and-white parameters.

  “Okay, then.” He nods once. “The platinum has two options. It can be a weekend thing—three days straight—or it can be three times.”

  “Three…times?”

  Davis leans close and waggles his thick sandy-colored eyebrows. “Three. Times.”

  “So, if I chose the platinum, this would be our second date, with only one more to go.”

  Totally doable.

  “No, sweetheart,” he corrects. “Three times.” He lifts his eyebrow and tilts his head, letting his expression speak rather than his words. He’s talking about sex.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh. Tonight I may return you home with nary a kiss on the cheek.”

  “Did you just use the word ‘nary’?”

  “No sex means tonight doesn’t count as one of the times.” He drinks from his water glass.

  “Hmm.”

  “On the other hand, choosing the deluxe means that after tonight we could be done.” He shrugs with his mouth like it doesn’t matter to him which we do.

  “No sex required?” I narrow my eyes, waiting for him to lighten the moment with a finger point and a “Gotcha!” He does neither.

  “No sex required,” Davis confirms.

  I know it’ll take a few encounters with Davis to go from fascinated to out the door, so the deluxe isn’t an option. Getting him out of my mind means getting him back into bed. Once may do it, but twice would definitely do it. I have no choice, really.

  “I guess it’s
going to have to be the platinum,” I announce.

  My tummy flips and I press my knees together against the anticipatory quivering between my legs. Amidst a light champagne buzz and talking to Davis so openly about our sexual arrangement, I’m ready to seal the deal on that second time with him.

  Tonight.

  After that third “time,” we’ll be back to normal, and then I can relax. Not knowing when we expire is throwing me off. We weren’t ever supposed to start. I’m not intrigued by the mystery of will-we-or-won’t-we. Not knowing what’s to come is the scary part.

  It always was.

  We leave Bubbly’s for what I think is his place until he asks if I have everything I need from McGreevy’s before he drops me at home. My place is more convenient than his, considering I don’t have a toothbrush or a change of clothes with me. Smart thinking on his part.

  At my front door, Davis walks me up the three steps leading to my house. A surge of certainty replaces the nervous tingles, but I’m still anticipating what is to come.

  “You’re welcome to stay,” I say as I unlock my front door. I pull the key out and face him. “I have—”

  Davis kisses me.

  Slow.

  Long.

  Deep.

  I give in to the fluttering of my lashes, closing my eyes and wrapping my arms around his neck. My breasts press against his firm chest and my heart beats erratically. When we part, I’m sort of hanging from his shoulders and he’s watching me through hooded lids.

  “This is where I say good night.” He places a kiss on the center of my lips.

  I whimper in argument. Good night?

  When he lets me go, I catch his hand in mine before he walks away. “No deal.”

  His mouth tips at one sensual corner. “No?”

  “No.” My firm tone brooks no argument.

  At least I hope so.

  “I want you to come in.” I open my front door and gesture at the gap as if he doesn’t understand plain English.

  “And after I come in? Then what?” His thumb caresses my hand as he steps closer.

  My heart mule-kicks my ribs. Is he going to turn me down again?

  “And then everything,” I whisper, hope jittering in my veins like too much caffeine.