Page 9 of Rockstar Baby
The kids part intrigued me, not so much the teacher. Not that it had to be a teacher, but the only guy who had hit on me lately was one of my brother Caleb’s friends. Mark was just like my brother and pretty much hit on anyone with a pair of tits. And those kinds of guys didn’t interest me.
At least not right now.
I was used to being the buddy and that sweet girl from the diner. Old people patted my hand and left me a dollar under their coffee cups as if they were giving me the world.
Nothim.
He looked at me as if I was a woman. I mean, I was, but being twenty-four and looking like a perpetual teen got old sometimes.
His golden lashes swept down as he took in the snug line of my polyester pants. I’d pregamed my trip to the bar with a few glasses from Kinleigh’s perpetual box of wine at her clothing store. It had taken very little prodding for me to dive into her retro trunks at the back of her store. Sure, most of us used those particular trunks for Halloween, but we’d giggled our way into outfits and wobbled to the bar on ridiculous platform heels.
Kinleigh was one of my best friends, and she was forever trying to give me a makeover. I was suddenly very glad I’d listened to her clothing suggestions for once. The platform shoes were surprisingly comfy though. I might keep them. I liked the extra four inches without the accompanying pain as well.
Too bad the margaritas had mostly worn off on my walk to the diner.
I might need some of that courage to get through his meal. Mitch usually had an emergency bottle of whiskey stashed in the flour pantry.
Then again, I didn’t want to rush my customer. He’d be gone and I’d be back to taking my frustrations out on bread dough again.
“Does that work back there?” He nodded toward the jukebox with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Or just pre-programmed?”
“Nope. Fully functional. If you’ve got the quarters.”
His eyebrows snapped down. “Who carries quarters?”
I patted my tiny pocket. The pants really weren’t made for anything other than showing off my butt. “I don’t have much in the way of tips, seeing as I was SOS’d from my boss to fill in for the usual night girl.” I curled my finger around the two quarters I had in my pocket from my one drink at the bar. Unfortunately, I’d had to pay my way there as well. No one had bought me drinks. “However—”
He held his hand up. “I can pay my own way, love.”
“You have quarters?”
“Well, no.”
“Cash?”
“That I have.”
“Good, then you can give me a nice tip.” I slapped the two quarters on the table. “Good luck finding a song you like. Most of the songs are from the 50’s and 60’s. A handful of 70’s.”
“I’ll make do.”
Chubby Checker’s anthem wasn’t exactly the conduit for a sashay back to the kitchen, so I just double-timed it to get back before the bacon was well done.
As I was plating his food, I had to redo his toast—again. Talk about distractible Debbie.
“Re-fucking-lax, he’s just a guy.” I blew a flyaway bit of hair out of my eyes and grabbed the two plates. Perfect toast this time, thank you very much.
He was still standing in front of the juke when I returned. He had broad shoulders. The sweater was obviously well made—not a Target special. It fit his body far too well. He seemed athletic. The kind of guy who played football or…no, rugby. He seemed like he would play something a little more about contact.
Something that would leave bruises.
Lord, where did that come from? And why was that so fascinating?
He turned and caught me staring. His eyebrow rose and a slow smirk spread across his interesting mouth. Straight white teeth flashed and transformed his serious face into a mouthwatering collection of smile lines and rugged charm.
Cripes, my panties were in such trouble. And not just because they were currently drowning.
He gave me that unsettling once over again as I set the plates down.
