Page 45 of Late to Love

She stares at me. “I just?—”

I take another step back, fighting the instinct that wants nothing more than to take her in my arms and offer comfort. “I just had my tongue buried in your pussy not half an hour ago. There’s no need to define this.”

“So, we’re just…hooking up?” Her voice sounds small.

Hell. Isn’t this whatshewants? No way would she want more than that. I’m old as fuck compared to her. So I shove the voice that’s yelling I’m being an asshole far, far down, and I nod. I nearly buckle when I raise my eyes to hers and see the pain she’s trying so fucking hard to cover up. But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would she wantme? I’m good for a roll in the hay. Not much else.

“Okay,” she responds.

I turn and walk as nonchalantly as possible, willing myself to move forward.

Chapter17

Darcy

TWO DAYS. JUST two days ago, the growly man behind the bar was fucking me like our lives depended on it, and I can’t stop thinking about it. About him. About how different he is when it’s just us, the way he grants me grin after grin, as though he isn’t giving me a precious gift every single time.

Good lord. Am I comparing his smiles to “precious gifts” now? I really am dick-whipped.

To be honest, no one would blame me. Amanda sure doesn’t, because I called her almost the second that he left me in his loft two mornings ago.

Suffice to say that my girl is a big believer in whatever is happening.

Anthony and I haven’t had any time together since that morning two days ago. I’ve been putting in extra time at Dad’s hardware store in the morning and night helping to train the summer part-time students, putting me in Anthony’s loft long after he’s left for the morning and leaving before he’s done for the night. Never mind the work I’m doing on the pool table in Agatha’s garage. Part of me is glad for the time apart, because I can’t help the twinge of unease every time I think about the way we ended things the other day. The other part of me wants to climb him like a tree and demand he do that thing with his tongue again.

I know I should be fine with the set-up we agreed to—who gets mad about hook-ups that are like Anthony Hall?—but I want more. Which is a “me” problem, I know.

Throwing my car into park, I grab my things before sauntering across the sweltering parking lot and into the cool dimness of Hall’s Balls. I take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the light, using the time to reset. There’s no escaping Anthony tonight, because it’s bowling league night. I left my work in the loft early and went home to shower and shave. And…maybe I put on a nice bra and panties, and maybe I didn’t. Who’s to say?

My hair is up in its customary top knot, a pink bandana tied around it. I’m in my pink cheetah crop top and wearing a just-below-the-knee black skirt that is stretchy and comfortable as hell. I distinctly recall the way Anthony’s eyes tracked me in this skirt the last time I wore it, and I plan on using every tool in my arsenal to get back into his bed tonight. Because I do, in fact, want to climb him like a tree and demand he do that thing with his tongue again.

His eyes flit to me once he’s finished with a group of moms who had far more to say to him than necessary. I know it’s terrible of me, but I absolutely love that he gave them exactly no attention other than the bare minimum to get their drinks and process payment. I don’t know that I’m jealous of them, exactly, but I’m not going to lie and say that there’s something about how free they seem to feel about flirting with him that I don’t think I could get away with.

He nears me, and I smile. “Hey, Mr. Hall.”

“Drink?” The way he’s acting, it’s as though the man hasn’t had his mouth on me.

“Pitcher of margaritas, please,” I say, leaning onto the bar and making sure to give him the full benefit of my low-cut top.

And…score! It works. He glances down for the briefest of seconds and I cheer inside my head. When his gaze meets mine again, his eyes are heated.

“What is that?” he growls.

I tilt my head. “What is what?”

He moves infinitesimally closer. “What are you wearing?”

Ah. “A bra.”

He grunts, which makes me laugh.

“A margarita, please.” I pause. “Top shelf.”

His eyes meet mine. With another grunt, he turns to put it together.

“Hi!” comes a voice from beside me. I turn, and there’s Devon and Aaron. Devon wraps me in a tight hug, then nods a hello at the stone-faced Anthony.

He slides the margarita to me, then raises a questioning brow at Devon and Aaron.

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