Page 56 of The Best Kind of Bad

I feel a thousand pounds lighter. My old man used to say we Larsons had the luck of the devil. It’s better than having bad luck, and I’ll take it.

Feeling the familiar rush, like I’m on a roll, I go off in search of Marnie.

I find her loading up some cake boxes into the back of her car.

She doesn’t turn to look at me. “Shouldn’t you be dancing with you girlfriend?”

She’s trying to act unaffected, but she’s shown me her hand. Telling me she’s been keeping tabs on me and where I am.

The thought of Marnie watching me, tracking my progress, gives me a flush of pleasure.

I come closer, leaning on the side of her car. “Who?”

She pauses, turning to face me. “Shea Pierson.”

I study her face. Her hair is piled in a messy bun. A long tendril has snuck loose to skirt past her elegant jaw. I tilt my head. “Where’d you come up with that name? You been doing your research?”

“Andy.”

“Ah. Yes. Andy Reed. She’s a wealth of knowledge, isn’t she?”

Marnie’s lips twist slightly. “Nice girl. Big mouth.”

“What’s she been saying? Should I be worried?”

Marnie’s eyebrows flick upwards. “I don’t know, Dusty. Should you?”

It feels like a dangerous game, but she’s still talking to me, and she hasn’t tried to put space between us yet. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re still a little jealous.”

Her expressive brows lower. “Accuse me of that again and see how it goes for you.”

I chuckle, zeroing in on the way her chest is rising and falling.

Her heart is racing.

Kind of like mine.

“You have a little frosting on your neck.”

“I do?”

She doesn’t.

Her hand flies up, gliding across her neck.

“Yeah, right here.” I lean in, dipping my head to brush my lips along her skin. My tongue peeks out and I nibble at the crook of her neck. She sucks in a breath, bending towards me when I put my hand on her lower back.

She smells amazing.

Sweet. Like wedding frosting. I groan, resting my forehead on her shoulder. “I want to take you home right now and lick every square inch of you.”

Her fingers chart a featherlight trail down my chest. “What about the reception?”

“Fuck that wedding. We made an appearance. We did our duty. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.” I slip my fingers into her jeans pocket and pull out her keys. “I’ll drive.”

“You’re going to leave your truck here?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I left my truck at a party.” I hook the waist of her jeans with my finger and tug her back so that I can open the passenger door. “Get in, baby girl, I’m taking you home.”

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