Page 7 of Betting on the Bad Boy
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to make it in one trip.” As I bent down to grab a box, her shirt rode up in the back, exposing a sliver of skin right above the waistband of her jeans, along with part of a dark swirly tattoo. Hell, I was a sucker for ink. What did the rest of it look like?
I crouched down to help. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Where do these need to go?” She picked up half the boxes and stood.
“Here.” I pushed a door open behind her. “They just need to go in the supply room.” My hip brushed up against her thigh as she walked past me into the room, and my dick pulsed at the brief contact. Obviously, I was out of practice if a single bump could send a rush of blood to my crotch. The whiff of something flowery and sweet drifted up to my nose as she passed.
I almost hadn’t recognized her as the frumpy chick I’d run into outside the library this afternoon. The bulky sweatshirt was long gone. Her snug t-shirt clung tight across her chest, the deep V-neck promising her bra contained more than a handful. She’d had her hair pulled up before, but now it flowed over her shoulders and down her back. Red, like the deep, dark color of the paprika Meemaw generously sprinkled over platters of her deviled eggs.
I stepped into the room after her, the door closing behind me. My finger flicked the switch, although the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling didn’t provide much light. “If you just set them here, I’ll come back later and break them down. Thanks for your help.” I moved to the back corner and tossed the boxes next to the box crusher.
“No problem.” The boxes fell from her arms, and she turned toward the door. She flipped her hair out of her face to back behind her shoulder, and the girly scent tickled my nose again.
What the hell was that? Shampoo? Perfume? Whatever it was, it sure smelled good. Usually, the girls I ended upwith doused themselves in body wash, body spray, perfume, hairspray, and all kinds of other crap, so I couldn’t tell what they were supposed to smell like. I shook my head to clear the scent away and noticed she’d almost reached the door.
I raced ahead of her and twisted the knob. “Let me get it.”
I pulled, but the door didn’t open. “Seems to be stuck.”
I pulled harder, but it didn’t budge. “Um, yeah, we might have a little problem here.”
CHAPTER 5
Dante
Cases of wine,beer, and hard alcohol lined the room. The locked door in front of us was the only way out, except for a tiny window about eight feet off the ground. I banged on the door a few times, then backed away and ran my hands through my hair.
“So, we’re stuck in here?” Faith asked.
“Looks that way. Do you have a phone?”
“No, I left it in my purse on the back of my chair. How about you?”
“Nope. Mine’s under the bar. Damn.”
“They’ll miss you up front though, right?”
“Um, yeah. Well, maybe. We’re a little over staffed tonight, so they might not notice right away.” Her eyebrows knit together, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt the need to reassure her. “I’m sure someone will come looking for us soon, though.”
“Great, just great.” She slid down to sit on the ground and leaned up against a tall stack of boxes sporting a sheaf of wheat on the side.
Putting myself through school as a bartender, I’d met lots of girls over the years. Most of the time, I had to fight them off. I’d been told I was pretty easy on the eyes and rarely failed when agirl was involved, especially a hot one. This chick threw me off my game a bit, though. She’d bantered back and forth earlier but hadn’t taken the bait.
I squatted down next to her. “Hey, we never really introduced ourselves earlier today. I’m Dante Bishop.” I thrust my hand toward her for a handshake.
“Faith Wainwright.” Her soft, warm hand felt way too good in mine. I tightened my grip, and she pulled away.
“Dante? Like Dante Alighieri, the famous poet?”
I studied her face. Not much makeup. That was a good thing. Damn, she smelled even better up close. Something about her pulled me in. What had she really been doing with those books outside the library this afternoon?
She must have mistaken my silence for ignorance. “You know, the poet who wroteThe Divine Comedy? The Inferno?”
“Sure, I’ve heard of Dante’sInferno.” I stood up, stretching out my legs. “But I was named after Dante’s Pizzeria in South Bergen, Jersey. My parents hooked up in the backseat in the parking lot, and nine months later I appeared. Ever been there?”
She stared up at me for a moment, her eyes wide, then looked away. “Um, no. Can’t say that I have.”
Damn. I didn’t mean to make her uncomfortable. My lack of a conventional upbringing was a sore spot, one I didn’t broach during an initial conversation... or any conversation, actually.
