Grace

I recognize the tiny blonde approaching my bar.

Last night Davis sidled up to her and bought her a buttery nipple. I poured it. She’s young—college age maybe?—and more dishwater than platinum, but she’s a blonde. Evidently Davis’s latest flavor of the week has come back for a refill.

And I don’t mean on her drink.

She missed Davis by seconds. He’s in the bathroom. His beer is sitting in its usual spot. The blonde eyes the bottle of Sam Adams, and then the facedown cellphone like she’s debating picking it up and checking the screen.

She flashes me a nervous smile, then looks around as if Davis were simply waiting off to the side to surprise her. Movement catches my eye in the back of the room. Davis steps out of the bathroom, well within my range of vision but too far over the blonde’s shoulder for her to notice him. He notices her, though.

He takes three steps, spots her, and freezes like he’s doing his own personal mannequin challenge. He gestures to me, slicing the air with both arms like he’s a ref calling an incomplete pass. This is one particular blonde he’s not looking forward to running into today.

Oh, Davis.

“Men. They’d forget their heads if they weren’t attached to their necks,” I say to the blonde as I pick up the phone. Waggling it at her, I comment, “Do you know how many cellphones are left here each week?”

“No.” She blinks big blue eyes. Poor thing. I almost feel sorry for her…but not quite. “Davis usually sits here, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” I tell her, plastering a smile onto my face.

There was a time I would’ve sold him out. Pointed over her shoulder and told her he was avoiding her because he changes girlfriends like he changes underwear. Today I’m disinclined to give her a chance to sink her hooks into him.

I don’t know why. Maybe for the same reason that Davis swooped in to save me from the cherry-stem guy.

“The next time you see him, can you tell him that Heather stopped by?” she asks.

“Sorry.” I allow sympathy to color my features. “I can’t.”

This confuses her, if the pleat separating her thinly plucked eyebrows is any indication. She fiddles with the strap on her purse.

“We went out,” she continues explaining, “but…I don’t have his number.”

Because he didn’t want you to have it, hussy, I think but don’t say. I’m definitely territorial today. This is my bar. I don’t want hussies in my establishment.

I lean toward her as if conspiring. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Davis lean in too, one hand out as if to keep me from blowing his cover.

“If I passed on every message from every pretty girl who’s upset with Davis, Heather, I’d have to quit bartending and make that my full-time job.” I pat her hand because she’s not taking this news well. “Would you like a word of advice from a girl who’s been used by a guy like him?”

She nods slowly. Reluctantly.

“Cut your losses. The sex isn’t worth it and it only gets worse.”

Her cheeks color and she snatches her hand away. With a murderous glare at me—what did I do?!—she turns and stalks out of the bar, climbs into a red Smart Car, and zips down the road. Davis, the coward, slinks back to his seat once she’s gone.

“Thanks, Gracie Lou,” he says, relief in his voice. “I owe you one.”

He reaches for his bottle but I grab it before he does and empty it down the sink. He shouts a protesting “Hey!” but I keep pouring, giving it a few hard shakes to get the last drops out.

“You’re cut off.” I slide his cellphone back to him.

“That’s my first one! I only drank half of it.” He grimaces and damn if he still isn’t attractive.

“Not the beer. You’re cut off from picking up girls in my bar.”

“McGreevy’s isn’t your bar.”

“Close enough.” I’m one of the managers. The owner, Dax, has been absent all summer doing God knows what. He hired me, then went missing like the FBI was on his tail.

“You can’t keep having sex with them and not letting them know it’s over, Davis.” I toss the beer bottle into the trash. “It’s inhumane.”

“Is that what she told you?” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “That she and I had sex?”

“She didn’t have to tell me. I have eyes. She has blond hair.”

Davis smirks like he has something on me. I cock my head to one side in consideration.

“You mean…you didn’t take her home?” I probe.

“I took her home, but nothing happened.”

“Ha!” Surely he’s kidding. My smile falls when he continues to watch me earnestly. “You left with her last night. I assumed…”

He shakes his head. “That’s not how it works, Gracie.”

What, like there are rules?

Relief washes over me and the feeling is so foreign, I’m tempted to turn and check the mirror behind me to make sure I didn’t Quantum Leap into someone else’s body. To cover my reaction, I grab a bar towel and start wiping down the bar in front of him.

“I wouldn’t know, since you have a type and I’m clearly not it.” I point at my hair. Once I jokingly suggested Davis try out a redhead sometime, and he stormed out of the bar. He avoided me for a good bit after that. When he did return, I received a mumbled apology without eye contact. I’m guessing he had a bad breakup with a redhead, but he never said that was the case.

“I don’t have a type,” he argues. “Give me a Sam Adams or I’ll go drink somewhere else.” He stabs the bar top with his finger.

I clutch the towel to my chest with both hands and let my chin tremble as I feign devastation. “No, Davis, please. Anything but that!”

By the time I throw my arm over my forehead in telenovela style, he’s scowling at me. I grin and toss the towel aside.

“This is a tender topic, I know.” I flatten my palms on the bar in front of him. “We’ve known each other awhile now. Level with me. Why the blondes? Why pastel-wearing Barbie dolls with large, vacant eyes and tiny little frames? Don’t you want a woman who can handle it if during the throes of sex you back her against a wall, or…I don’t know, break a headboard or something?”

Davis’s gray eyes heat so much I could swear they’re smoking. He leans forward, his voice a seductive husk when he asks, “Damn, Gracie Lou. Are you offering?”

I’m a blusher when caught off guard—blame the red hair. Heat steals up my neck, warmth enveloping me as I imagine just that scenario. Davis pushing me against the wall. Hard kisses. Shouts of completion as his bed frame bangs the wall….

I clear my throat but my voice is thin when I say, “You wish.”

He sits back in his chair and fiddles with his phone, tapping it on the bar before flipping it facedown again. “I admit, I didn’t know you were interested.”

“I’m not interested.” I’m flustered. My heart ratchets up a few beats per minute, and I reach for the bar towel again so I have something to do with my hands.

“Care to make a wager on that?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t you do enough gambling at your day job?”

“Not gambling, Gracie. I’m a stock analyst. I analyze.”

The spark in his eyes matches the thrum in the air between us. It’s the sexual tension I’ve always felt around him. It lingers because we have no outlet. Like an overfilled balloon, we’re in need of a release valve—or a sharp pin.

“Fine. I don’t mind easy money.” I lift my chin. He wants to play? I’ll play. Time for Davis to put his money where his contoured, firm mouth is. “I’ll bet you one hundred dollars you won’t ask out the next nonblonde who approaches you.”

He grunts, his eye roll suggesting he could do that in his sleep.

I grin, knowing I have him. “Two hundred if she’s a redhead.”

His cocky smile falls, which was the reaction I expected. What I don’t expect is for his hand to shoot out and grip my wrist, his thumb rubbing the soft skin there.

His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “I win.”

It takes me a full count of three to understand his meaning. Much like the blonde who was standing in front of me a few minutes ago, I snatch my arm away. “Not me!”

“You approached. I asked.” He shrugs. “Those were the terms.”

“I-I didn’t approach you.” I don’t want to date Davis. I don’t like Davis.

“You leaned in and said, ‘Two hundred if she’s a redhead.’ Gracie, that is an approach.” He winks and that blush warming my neck burns into rage.

“I meant to challenge you,” I growl.

He gives me a curt nod and folds his hands like an executive at a desk. “Challenge accepted.”

His handsome face is scarily sincere.

“You have three Davis packages from which to choose.” He ticks them off using his fingers. “The Davis. The Davis Deluxe. The Platinum Davis.”

“You’re making this up.” Isn’t he?

“The Davis,” he continues, “is standard for any date save one detail.”

“Which is?” I fold my arms, still not buying it. What kind of guy offers dating packages, other than an escort?

“Hold the eggplant.”

He’s not laughing with me.

“Not literally. ‘Hold’ in this scenario means no holding. You can’t touch me below the belt.”

My gosh. He is an escort.

“You need to make that distinction, do you?” I hoist a brow and try to appear like I’m not thinking about what Davis’s…eggplant…might look like. Like I’m not thinking about how many women bypassed that option because they were glad to touch it. “Why an eggplant?”

“Well, it used to be ‘Hold the pickle,’ but then the eggplant emoji gained popularity. I had to update.”

“Ah, I see. So sexting is part of the basic package?”

“No, that’s the deluxe,” he says so sincerely that I’m beginning to believe him. “Sexting is a substantial time requirement.”

“You’re insane,” I titter on a nervous laugh. At least the heat is receding from my face now.

“I’m efficient. Which package would you prefer, Grace?” Something seductive slides into his voice. Even during this bizarre conversation, that same charge sizzles in the air.

“Unless you’re chicken,” he says, easing us onto familiar ground.

“I’m the one who issued the bet,” I remind him. “I’m certainly not afraid of you or your…packages.”

I kind of am, though. I just explained to Rox why I wasn’t dating. But maybe…I mean, there’s no way Davis will stick around for more than one date, so what’s the harm?

“Prove it,” he says. “When’s your next day off?”

My throat is so dry I have to swallow before I can formulate an answer. “Thursday.”

Am I really doing this? At some point our banter slipped off the tracks and we entered The Twilight Zone.

“Thursday.” He tosses a few bills on the bar to pay for his beer. “Decide which package you want before then and send me a text.”

“With or without an eggplant emoji?” I smirk.

He leans across the bar, grabs a pen from a cup, and jots his phone number on one of the dollar bills. I flick my eyes to his lips and for one insane second imagine what his firm, full mouth might feel like against mine.

Incredible, I imagine.

“That’s up to you.” He backs away. Without turning, he says, “Include your address with the text. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

I stare at his phone number on the dollar bill and consider texting him.

Damn.

This might be the first time in the history of the world the ole phone-number-on-a-dollar pickup worked.

Davis

I know, I know. I made a lot of noise about not going out with Gracie. I alluded to a past that traumatized me enough that I swore off excitement forever.

But then I got competitive and that old adage “Always leave ’em wanting more” had me drop-kicking the ball into Grace’s court.

There is a problem with that adage in this case, though. I’m the one who was left wanting. I’ve avoided McGreevy’s the last two days to force Grace’s hand. If she didn’t see me, she’d have to text me. Part of my brilliant plan was also that she wouldn’t be tempted to take back her yes.

Today’s Thursday and she hasn’t texted.

I shouldn’t care that she hasn’t texted.

At the gym, I finish one last bicep curl and rest my elbows on my knees, blowing out a slow breath. My mind goes to work and loops my mental to-do list until a voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Hey, stranger.”

Slowly I raise my head. I’m confronted by a smooth blond ponytail, caramel brown eyes, and legs that go for miles.

“Hi.”

She gives me a tight-lipped smile. I get this look a lot. “You don’t remember me.”

“Not true.” I stand and place the weights on the rack. “You and I went to the Ale Fest together over the summer. You like ciders, hate IPAs”—I turn and snag my towel from the bench I was sitting on—“and your favorite color is green.”

She laughs—which is my intended response. I don’t remember her favorite color or if she told me what it was.

“It’s purple.” She gestures to her purple spandex shorts. I should have known. “I haven’t seen you around.”

I usually work out on my lunch break, but lately I’d been hitting the gym first thing in the morning. Except for today. Today I checked my phone every hour on the hour for Grace’s text and then, frustrated, came in during lunch to blow off steam.

We made a bet. She lost. Rules are rules.

Except I’m not sure that’s what’s bothering me. I’m not accustomed to rejection.

“Anyway,” the blonde continues, reminding me she’s there. I try to recall her name. It starts with an M; I remember that much. “Are you free tonight?”

She cocks a hip and lifts an eyebrow.

Mandi.

That’s right. A visual of what her body looks like without clothes snaps to the front of my mind. It’s not a bad memory at all.

“Sadly, Mandi, I’m not free.” Her eyes light as if she’s impressed I remembered her name, but the light snuffs out when I turn her down. “I have a date tonight.”

If she texts me.

“We could always hook up this weekend.” Mandi dips her chin and peeks coyly through her lashes. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she’s willing to play sloppy seconds knowing I have a date tonight. Mandi’s fit, forward, and gorgeous. I bet half the guys in here would give their left nut to go out with her.

I take a step closer to her and touch her arm, just a gentle brush of my fingers. “Sorry, sweetheart. Maybe another time.”

Her sex-kitten ploy drops and she now looks peeved. I hear her mutter, “Whatever, jerk,” as she marches past me.

I watch her go, my gaze wandering past a bulky guy on the treadmill. He shakes his head like I’m an idiot for turning her down.

On my way to the showers, I consider that I am an idiot for turning Mandi down. She would have been a guaranteed good time tonight.

Instead I’m choosing to wait on Grace to text me, which is not guaranteed. Hell, if she does call, she could choose the basic Davis package. She might choose it out of spite, knowing it means she can’t touch the goods.

What I didn’t tell her was that the package doesn’t exclude my touching her. I can still touch each and every part of her. If she chooses.

I open my locker and check my text messages. One from Vince. Zero from Grace.

I’m not sure how long to wait.

Arguably, I’ve already waited too long.