Hit the Spot

I shouldn’t even be reacting at all. What was wrong with me?

Forcing focus, I clicked my pen open, poised it on my ticket book, and asked nonchalantly, “What can I get you started with?” as if Jamie hadn’t just painted a very descriptive picture in my head.

His smile was slow and satisfied as it moved across his face.

“I don’t know. You offerin’ yourself up?” Jamie smirked through his question as he sat tall in the booth, his one arm still stretched behind him and his other relaxed on the table next to the menu. “’Cause if that’s the case, I’ll take my order to go. Your legs would look unfuckingreal spread wide in my backseat.”

I sighed. Okay. This was getting ridiculous.

“I am not offering myself up. I have a boyfriend,” I told him with a little attitude, watching his face and waiting for the expected surrender and disappointment to shadow his arrogance.

It didn’t. I looked harder.

And still, nothing. Not one bit of change.

Jamie didn’t flinch. Didn’t lose the smirk he was wearing. Hell, it didn’t even falter.

I opened my mouth to repeat myself but he shut me up fast when he finally spoke.

“Not sure what that has to do with us,” he said, keeping the arrogance, keeping the smirk, and keeping at me like what I’d just shared meant nothing. He shrugged, then continued. “Affects him more than anything. Handle it now or wait, whatever. Just know, once we get started, you need to drop him, babe. I don’t share.”

My mouth fell open. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Once we get started?” I echoed, lowering my arms to my sides. “What makes you think—”

He cut me off quick.

“Guessin’ you don’t know who I am, considering I’ve never seen you around here, and trust me, I would’ve seen you, so let me fill you in.” Jamie’s face grew serious. “I want something? I get it, and I don’t fuckin’ lose. Ever. No shit. I’m not just blowin’ smoke up my own ass, babe. When I say I don’t fuckin’ lose, I mean, I do not fuckin’ lose. That applies to a lot of shit, Legs, and it sure as fuck applies to you. I won’t back down, boyfriend or not. You gotta know that.”

Something sick twisted deep in my stomach as I studied Jamie, at his eyes wild with promise, because I knew then exactly what kind of man he was and it had nothing to do with his surfing record or good looks or the money lining his wallet.

He was a loser. A player. A jerk. He didn’t respect me or the relationship I was in.

He didn’t respect love.

And that disgusted me.

“I am not interested in being gotten,” I snapped, nostrils flaring. “Like I said, I’m with someone. I’m happy. I’m taken. Maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it sure as hell means everything to me. In terms of losing, you’ve already lost. I’m not available. So if that’s all you’re here for, you can go ahead and take your conceited ass right on back out into the storm. If it’s not, you’ve got five seconds to give me your order before I walk away for good. I like tips, but I don’t need yours. It won’t be any loss to me.”

“You ain’t taken, babe. And I did not fuckin’ lose,” he repeated, a little firmer this time.

Apparently those were the only parts of my speech he’d heard.

I brought my hand clutching the pen up to my hip and fisted it there, knowing if I didn’t, I’d probably end up throwing a punch, and if I did that, I’d be out of a job. For sure.

And I really liked this job.

“Three seconds,” I hissed.

He smiled, looked at my hand fisted at my hip, studied it for two out of the three seconds he had left, and then met my gaze when he quickly ordered, “BBQ chicken biscuit. Extra sauce.”

“You want something to drink with that?”

“Cherry Coke.”

“We don’t have Cherry Coke.”

“You got Coke and grenadine syrup?”

I did a quick mental scan of the bottles we had lined up underneath the counter.

“Yes,” I murmured, having remembered spotting the grenadine bottle.

“Then you got Cherry Coke.” Jamie slapped his hand down on the menu sitting in front of him and slid it to the edge of the table.

I reached to retrieve it, tugged on the corner with the two fingers not clutching my pen, and met resistance when he refused to lift his hand.

He stared at me, at my eyes, my lips, the line of my neck revealed from my hair being gathered over one shoulder, and lower, my breasts down to my toes and back up again.

I glared at him, watching his eyes do this appraising wander, and the longer it went on, the more irritated I became.

“You finished?” I grated.

“With you?” He met my gaze. His eyes were burning now. “No fuckin’ way,” he growled.

“I’m taken,” I repeated.

“You ain’t taken, Legs. Not unless you’re with me.”

This jerk was mental. “That will never happen,” I promised. “And my name is Tori. Not Legs.”

Jamie grinned. “We’ll see about that,” he said, lifting his hand and allowing me to take the menu.

I didn’t know if he was referring to the taken argument or the nickname and I didn’t want to ask. Truth be told, I just wanted to get away from him.

If he grinned at me one more time, I might actually throw that punch.