Chapter Four
Dominic
Elizabeth wasn’t lying about her metabolism. I keep a close eye on her throughout my shift, but she’s fine—speaking clearly, tracking conversations without any problem, laughing softly and generally being a good customer.
When I clock out at eleven, she gets up from her stool, tipping well over a hundred percent. I start to tell her it’s too much, but she shakes her head.
“I’d give more, but that’s all the cash I have. You were great company. I would’ve been bored out of my mind otherwise, and I didn’t feel like going home. And don’t forget—you introduced me to vodka.” She smiles, but there’s a stubborn set to her jaw.
Being gracious and grateful is the only option. Besides, she isn’t so drunk that she doesn’t know what she’s doing. If I thought she was drunk, I wouldn’t let her tip this way. “Thanks.”
We walk out together. The lot has a few of usual yuppie college kid cars, and, very unusually, a shiny Maserati that I can’t help but notice. It’s too flashy, too out of place.
She smacks her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Aw, crap. I forgot I didn’t drive here.”
“Were your friends your ride home?”
She frowns, then nods slowly. “Yeah.”
Damn. I can’t believe they left without offering to drive her back first. Who needs enemies when you have friends like those?
As though she’s read my mind, Elizabeth adds, “They probably assumed I’d call one of my brothers, except they’re all out of town. I should probably call a taxi…or…” She cants her head. “Can I ask you for a ride?”
She lives in Orange County, which is way too far for a round trip, but if I say no, the evening’s over. I feel oddly like Cinderella, except in this fairytale, she controls when the clock strikes midnight. “Sure.”
Amusement sparkles in her bright gray eyes. “You should’ve at least asked where I live. What if it’s the opposite end of the city?”
My turn to score a point. “You live in Orange County.”
“Ooh, observant. I like that in a man. So, you still offering?”
“Sure. Besides, even if you had your car here, I wouldn’t let you drive.”
She shoots me a cocky smile. “I’m totally sober.”
“Maybe enough to talk. Not enough to get behind the wheel,” I say.
I open the passenger-side door and let her into my four-year-old Accord, making a mental note to thank Kristen for nagging until I vacuumed and washed the car last week. First impressions matter, and I don’t want to give Elizabeth any reason to think less of me.
Once we’re both in, she props her elbow on the bottom of the window and rests the side of her head against the back of her fingers. Her gaze runs over my face, then her expression firms as though she’s come to a decision. “So…where do you live?”
My blood thickens at her tone—an exciting mixture of coy and flirty. Kristen’s sleeping over with her best friend tonight. Thank God. It’s like the stars have aligned perfectly.
Elizabeth reaches over and runs her fingers along my thigh. Her scent—vanilla and lavender—tickles my nose. An electric charge sizzles at the base of my spine, and heated blood pumps hard through my veins. “You going to start the car or what?” She smiles, her cheeks flushed.
Logic and good intentions grow fuzzy. I don’t hook up with women I meet at the bar. I want to set a good example for Kristen so she knows to look for a guy who’ll take her seriously and treat her well. And I’m usually just too busy with life—college courses, taking care of my sister and working two jobs.
But with Elizabeth, none of that matters. The only thing is her being with me…and the undercurrent of instinctive knowledge that if I end this now, she’s going to slip away, never to be seen again.
My mouth dry, I speed toward my place, half an hour from the bar. I don’t run any red lights, but it’s pretty close a couple of times.
She laughs softly. “Love it that you’re impatient.”
“Do you?”
“You want me.”
“What man wouldn’t?”
She grows wistful. “Not everyone wants me.”
“You’ve been with the wrong men.”
She opens her mouth, then instead of saying anything, drags her teeth along her lower lip.
I reach the duplex in record time. And thank God my sister and I are both on the tidy side, because bringing a girl to a pigsty?
Just no.
Elizabeth takes a quick glance at the place. It’s all inexpensive functionality topped with neat. Most of furniture came secondhand or from IKEA. The large high-definition TV is a prize from last year’s Black Friday sale, where I beat a rabid crowd to the only sub-five-hundred-dollar unit in the store. A few photos of my family are lined up on the mantel of a small gas fireplace, which had to have been put in just so the landlord could claim the unit had a fireplace.
“Got anything to drink?” she asks.
“What are you in the mood for?”
“What do you have? Other than water, tea or coffee.”
“Vodka good?”
She nods. I pour two glasses of Stoli—I’m off the clock now—and take them to the couch. We sit and clink before taking a sip.
“Do you really go by Elizabeth with everyone?” I ask, enjoying the smooth taste of the vodka. “No nickname?”
“Yeah. Everyone calls me that, except this one cousin who calls me Eliza. I think he felt rebellious when he was younger, you know? And it stuck. With him, anyway.”
She’s probably wrong about her cousin. Elizabeth is too formal a name for this woman. She’s too vivacious, too open and too sexy. She needs a shorter, snappier name.
“But…” She knocks back the second shot of vodka. “You can call me Liza. Nobody calls me that, and I think it suits me better than Elizabeth or Eliza, don’t you?”
I nod, ridiculously pleased I’m going to get my own name for her.
“So what’s your name?” she asks.
“Dominic.”
“Nice. I like it.” She smiles and runs a fingertip along my lips as she leans forward. “Can I call you something else, though?”
I feel the touch like an electric shock. My heart thuds. If she keeps this up, she can call me Idiot. “Like what?”
“Mine.”