“It can be iced coffee. Or any kind of beverage, really.”
I would like to say yes because I think coffee with this guy would be nothing if not entertaining. However, I’ve made it a personal policy not to go out with customers because most of them are pervs. Not that I have a problem with pervs or perviness. If I did, I wouldn’t work at this store.
“I don’t go out with customers.”
“What about former customers?”
I make a face. “Look, you’re probably a nice guy. I mean, you seem pretty nice, but you bought a lot of weird stuff a few weeks ago, so I think it’s probably safer for me to pass.”
“If I hadn’t bought all that stuff, would you say yes?”
“But you did.”
“But none of it was for me.”
“So you keep saying.”
He drops his head and kneads the back of his neck, before glancing back up at me. “I look like a huge creep, don’t I?”
I wish he weren’t so hot. Or that I hadn’t been thinking about him constantly since he came in three weeks ago. “Kind of? I mean, I get it, you were doing your friend a solid. It’s not personal.”
“You don’t have to explain. I understand.” He gives me a chagrined smile.
It’s so sweet, I almost swoon right off my chair, another reason why going out with him is a bad idea. I don’t even know him and I find him swoony.
“This probably wasn’t the best thought-out plan. I just came from the golf course, and I was passing by, although I’m sure you’re going to question my honesty here. Anyway, I figured there wasn’t much of a chance of me running into you outside of here and, uh . . . I think you’re probably a lot of fun to spend time with. I’d love an opportunity to find out if that’s true, but I understand why you wouldn’t be interested. I promise I’m not some stalker creep.”
“You know saying that makes you seem like even more of one, right?”
He blows out a long breath and chuckles again. “Yup, I can see that.” He taps his fingers on the counter and gives me a sidelong glance. “Okay. Here’s what I’m going to do.” He grabs the Post-it notes lying by the cash register and uncaps the Sharpie. “I’ll leave my cell number in case you change your mind. I get that you’re probably going to toss it in the garbage as soon as I leave, but since I’m never going to come back to this store for fear of actually turning into a stalker creep, I’ve got nothing to lose, right? Also, I think I left my pride somewhere over in that section the last time I was here.” He motions to the Wall of Peen, then jots down his name and his phone number.
He pushes the Post-it pad toward me and taps once on the counter. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re absolutely stunning, and I haven’t been able to get you out of my head the past few weeks. Believe me, I’ve tried. I hope I hear from you. Although I’m pretty sure what I just said was probably me nailing my own coffin shut.” His eyes roam over my face in a way that feels intensely intimate, as if he’s memorizing me somehow. “Have a nice day, Cosy.”
“Thanks, Griffin, you too.” Man, that sounds way breathy. Also, I kind of like saying his name aloud. It rolls off the tongue nicely. I wonder if I’d say it in exactly that tone if he were say . . . licking some of that flavored lube off my body.
He shoots one more rueful grin over his shoulder before he leaves.
I wait until his sports car pulls out of the lot before I look down at the series of numbers on the yellow Post-it. He has nice penmanship. Which doesn’t mean anything. He could still be a better-dressed, nicer-looking and -smelling version of Eugene.
I stare at the phone number for a few more seconds, aware I’m stalling and trying to memorize it. I shake my head, peel the Post-it off, crumple it into a ball, and toss it in the garbage can. Except I miss and it bounces on the floor and lands next to my shoe. I shouldn’t take that as a sign.
I don’t even believe in signs.
This time when I aim for the trash bin, I don’t miss.
Chapter Three: Phone Roulette
Griffin
It’s been two days since I stopped by that sex shop. Hindsight is such a bitch. If I’d been thinking clearly, I might have considered how shady showing up there was. But I didn’t, so I’m pretty damn sure I screwed my chances of getting Cosy to go out with me.
I should let it go. She’s in college and can’t be more than twenty-five. And that’s me being optimistic. But I can’t get her out of my head. I think she was flirting with me when I came in to buy all that shit, but maybe that’s how she is with everyone. Sadly, I don’t think I’m going to find out if that’s true, so I’m here at the hotel gym, running away from my self-flagellation courtesy of my poor decision-making.
I’m on mile five of my jog, listening to music and half paying attention to the news flashing on the big-screen TV hanging on the wall. A woman saunters in wearing tiny running shorts and a sports bra. I keep my eyes above her neck, smile and nod a greeting before I focus on the TV again.
There are six treadmills in the gym, and I’m on the one closest to the windows overlooking the pool and beyond that, the Strip. Instead of leaving one open between us, which everyone knows is gym etiquette, she hops up on the one next to me. The fan set up in the corner of the room wafts her overly floral perfume my way.
She says something, forcing me to pop an earbud out. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”
She smiles and bats her lashes. “I was just saying it’s a good time of day to work out, nice and quiet.”
It was until she started talking to me. “Sure is.”
“You here on vacation?”
“Work. You?” I keep my answers short, hoping to discourage conversation, so I can go back to fantasizing about the woman who is probably too young for me and is never going to call.
“I’m here with my girlfriends for a bachelorette weekend.”
“Fun.”
“It has been so far, and it keeps getting better.” She gives me a flirty wink.
My shirt is damp with perspiration and sweat trickles down my temple. I can’t look or smell good, so I’m not sure what my allure is, unless this woman is particularly fond of sweaty men.
She makes small talk while she stretches. She and her girlfriends are going to some club tonight—it seems like an indirect invitation—and she asks if I’ve ever been there. The last time I went to a club was the night of the bachelor party. I offered to be the designated driver because my previous club experience in Vegas hadn’t been great.
I’m not much for pounding bass and scantily clad drunk women, but on the heels of a phone call from my ex-fiancée after I arrived in Vegas, I decided a night out was exactly what I needed. I got shitfaced on shots with some woman I can only vaguely recall. The next morning I woke up in my car, minus my credit card, all my cash, and my memory of most of the night. Whoever found my card went on some kind of post-bar food binge. They only managed to charge a pizza, some cigarettes, and a bunch of crap food before I cancelled it.
My new friend lifts her leg onto the handrail and brings her forehead to her knee.
Thankfully, my phone rings, so I check the screen, noting the unfamiliar number. “Sorry. I need to take this.”
I don’t wait for her to respond. I hit the stop button, wipe my face with my towel, grab my bottle of water, and head for the hallway. The gym door closes behind me as I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Uh, hi . . . is this Griffin?”
“It is.” The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“Oh, wow. I can’t believe I got it right,” she mumbles. “It’s Cosy, the sales associate you asked out at the Sex Toy Warehouse.”
I don’t know whether to smile or cringe. “Not my finest moment, but I was short on options. It would probably sound a lot less damning if the location were different, say a grocery store.”
“Possibly, but there’s a good chance you would’ve asked me out in the vegetable aisle while holding a giant cucumber, so . . .”
I lean against the wall, grinning. “That’s actually rather unlikely since I’m not partial to cucumbers.”
“What? That’s random and ridiculous. How can you not like cucumbers?”
“My brother once threw a rotten one at me, and it exploded on impact. Ruined them for me for life.”
“Wow. That’s all kinds of wrong. Makes me wonder what you did to warrant having a rotten cucumber thrown at you.”
“I can’t remember the details, unfortunately. I’d ask if you like cucumbers, but I feel like I’d be walking into some kind of trap.”
“Because they’re phallic?”
“You said it, not me.” I move toward the elevator. “So tell me, Cosy.” Her name is oddly comforting to say aloud. “Did you call to talk about produce?”
“Strangely enough, no. A new shipment of lube arrived, and you were the first person who came to mind since you failed to pick up more when you stopped by the other day.”
“I was too busy making an ass out of myself and getting shot down.”
“You caught me off guard, and I was being honest when I said I don’t date customers.”
“Mmm. Well, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I’m not sure I have much use for flavored lube since there are no more bachelor parties in my foreseeable future.” I punch the button that will take me to the penthouse floor.
“Might come in handy if you end up snagging yourself a girlfriend.”
“Not so sure that’s going to happen. The last woman I asked out seemed to think I was too creepy to risk going on a date with.”
“Oh yeah? How many women have you asked out recently?” Her tone shifts from curious to nervous.
“Just one, and I’m talking to her right now. I’m crossing my fingers this call means you’ve reconsidered.”
She’s silent for a moment before she mutters, “I hope I don’t regret this . . . What’re you up to tonight?”
“Taking you out for coffee, I hope.” The elevator doors open, and I step inside the empty car.
She chuckles quietly. “I don’t drink coffee after five or it keeps me up all night. Do you wanna meet up for a burger or something instead?”
Dinner is better than coffee, even if it’s burgers. “I sure would. What time works for you?”
There’s a short pause, like maybe she’s surprised I said yes so quickly. I’ve had more than three weeks to get the balls to go back to that store and ask her out. Also, I don’t play games, so if she’s calling to set up a date, I’m sure as hell going to do everything in my power to make it happen before she can change her mind.
“How about six thirty?”
My last meeting is at four, so that gives me time to get ready. “Perfect. I can pick you up, all I need is an address. I know a great place—”
“I already have a place picked out, and we can meet at the restaurant. I’ll text you the address. Oh, and don’t wear a suit. It’s not fancy, and you’ll look hot but way out of place, unless you want to look out of place, then go ahead and wear a suit.”
“Got it. No suit. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Cosy.”
“Me too. I mean, I’m looking forward to seeing you, not me. I think. As long as you don’t end up being a total creeper, anyway.”
“I promise I’m not a creeper.”
“So you say. See ya later, Griffin.”
“Bye, Cosy.” I end the call with a smile.
For the first time since Imogen broke off our engagement, I have a date I’m excited for. With a woman named Cosy who works at a sex toy shop. Pretty sure I’ve gone insane, but I don’t think I give a fuck.
I’m in a fantastic mood during my afternoon meetings. I’ve been working with hotel management in Vegas for the past several weeks to determine whether buying a prospective property here is a sound financial investment. My family’s in the business of buying and running hotels, but we have yet to purchase in Vegas, mainly because of the casino side of things.
I’m a numbers and stats kind of guy, which is why I’m here, so I can look at the optics and the financial statements and decide if it’s worth the investment. So far, I’m handling things fine on my own. My younger brothers Lex and Bane are better at the people stuff than I am, especially Lex. I’m not big on small talk, and the whole schmoozing thing isn’t my jam, but I do it because it’s part of the job. Regardless, my good mood seems to rub off on the staff, because it’s the most relaxed meeting I’ve had since I’ve been in Vegas. It’s also the most productive, which is another plus.
At five I head back to my penthouse suite, shower, shave, and debate what the hell I’m going to wear. Cosy said no suit, and she mentioned burgers, so I’m thinking casual is best. But even my casual wardrobe is mostly khakis and golf shirts, thanks to my ex-fiancée. I don’t want to wear anything she picked for me when I’m going on a date with someone new, so I opt for an old pair of jeans, and search my selection of rarely worn T-shirts. Most of them have the Harvard logo on them. Boasting my Ivy League education seems a little on the pretentious side, so I keep searching until I find the band shirt my brother’s girlfriend gave me for Christmas. I’ve never heard of the artist, but the shirt is visually interesting, so I figure it’s a safe bet.
I double up on the deodorant, call valet, and check for my wallet, phone, and keys before I head to the lobby. I arrive at the restaurant ten minutes early. It’s actually more of a diner, which means my flashy car stands out like a sore thumb in a lot full of Honda Civics. The place has a fifties-style vibe, red vinyl seats and Formica-topped tables with laminated menus that function as place mats.
It seems to be a seat-yourself establishment, so I slide into one of the booths facing the door, set my phone on the table, and peruse the menu while I wait for Cosy. A server approaches my table, popping bubble gum, pen poised over her pad, looking bored. “Welcome to Shakey’s, home of the best shakes in Vegas.” She punctuates the sentence with a chest shimmy. “Can I get you something to drink?” She taps the menu in front of me.
“I’ll take a Heineken, please.”
“We’re not licensed, sir.” She stabs at the DRINKS heading on the menu. “We have a wide variety of shakes and floats.”
I don’t know how a burger joint can survive in Vegas unlicensed. “I’ll take a club soda then, please.”
“Sure thing.” Gum popper flips her ponytail over her shoulder and flounces off.
I keep checking my phone and watching the time, crossing my fingers that Cosy doesn’t stand me up. At six thirty-three the tinkle of the bell draws my attention toward the door. As well as the attention of every single damn guy in the entire restaurant, and possibly half the women too.
My mouth goes dry and my palms start to sweat, which is not my normal response to women. I might be a little awkward, but I can generally hold my own when it comes to the opposite sex. I don’t think it hurts that I’m easy to look at—and I’m not being conceited. I won genetic roulette, as did my brothers.
But as I take in Cosy, standing in the doorway, the sun creating a halo around her, I have to question what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. Cosy looks somewhere between delicious and scandalous. Her long dark hair hangs loose around her shoulders, perfectly straight and gorgeously thick. Her lips are glossy and pink, and her eyes are lined with black, making the sky-blue iris shockingly vibrant.
While her face alone is magnificent, it’s not the only thing drawing a lot of attention. She’s wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts. If she turns around, I have a feeling I and everyone else might get a peek at some ass cheek hanging out the bottom. As it is, I can see an inch of pocket at the front. She’s wearing a butter-yellow tank, the black straps of her bra visible along with about two inches of bare midriff.
I sincerely hope she’s of legal drinking age, considering the number of highly sexual thoughts turning my mind into a very dirty gutter. I run my palms over my thighs and slide out of the booth while Cosy scans the restaurant.
Her eyes flar
e when they catch on me. I wonder if she’s as shocked that I showed as I am that she did. Her hips sway with every calculated step she takes in her insanely high heels. I’m still trying to figure out her fashion statement when she tosses a knapsack onto the seat—a fucking knapsack covered in patches and buttons—and drops into the booth across from me.
I take that as my cue to sit. “You look summery.”
She glances down and adjusts the thin strap of her tank. “Uh, this was pretty much the only clean thing I had left that wasn’t sweat pants and gym shirts.”
“So, you’re telling me you put in as little effort as possible?” I ask with a grin.
She tips her head to the side and regards me with something like embarrassment. “I usually do laundry every other Friday, so I’m down to slim pickings, which means I ended up in this.” She motions to her top.
“I like it.”
She props her cheek on her fist and motions to me with her other hand. “I’d tell you you look nice too, but I’m not sure you need me to bolster your confidence. I have a feeling you could wear three different plaid patterns and still look good.” Her gaze settles on the band logo stamped on my chest. “Oh my God! You listen to Ben Howard? I love him! I saw him in concert last year when I was in Colorado. He’s amazing live. Have you ever seen him play?”
I run a self-conscious hand over my chest. It’s just my luck she knows the artist. “I haven’t seen him live. I’m sure it’s quite the experience.”
Cosy nods enthusiastically. “It really is. Do you have a favorite album? I think their first was the rawest.”
We’re interrupted by the server who’s finally returned with my club soda and a plastic glass filled with ice, which I’m thankful for, since I don’t want to admit I don’t know the band. Our server’s gaze settles on Cosy, and her eyes flare with recognition. “Oh hey, girl! I haven’t seen you in forever. I thought you were out in Boulder!”
Cosy pops out of her seat to hug the girl. I’m right about her shorts—when she stretches up, there’s a good inch of cheek that peeks out of the bottom. “I was. Came back a couple of months ago because I need to finish up this degree and put it to use.”
The Shacking Up Series Page 62
