Page 19 of Moonshine Kiss
“It’s not like that,” I snapped. “We’re not like that.” I unlocked the front door.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be,” he pointed out.
That was exactly what it meant. Cassidy Tucker was off-limits. To meandJonah.
10
Cassidy
Iperused my menu and tried to pretend that knuckle-cracking didn’t make me want to beat the man across from me to death. Once again, I’d been suckered in by a cute picture and charming profile.
I really needed to give up on dating apps. But I’d been mopey since Bowie went all “You’re a shitty friend” on me and thought I’d take one last stab at finding lasting happiness with someone. Anyone. Even this dumbass.
I smiled over the menu at him while fantasizing about dumping the hot wax from the centerpiece candle on him. Baxter was currently having a loud phone conversation with someone he called “sweetheart.” He alternated between picking his teeth with a toothpick that he’d arrived at my house with and rolling his eyes at me during every pause on his end of the call.
“Listen, sweetheart. I’m busy. Now, why don’t you and your sweet ass figure out how to fix it yourself? And remember. If you don’t, you’re fired.” He gave me a slow wink, and I gagged. I grabbed my wine and inhaled it.
He hung up, cracked his knuckles, and gave me a look that was close to a leer. “Sorry about that. That’s my secretary—oh, excuse me. Myadministrative assistant,” he said with another eye roll. One more of those and his eyeballs were going to dislodge themselves from their sockets.
“Problem at work?” I asked, not giving a flying fuck. I had to hang in there and be polite and get through this evening. I never should have let him insist on picking me up. Now not only did I have to survive dinner, I had to survive a thirty-minute drive home. Ugh. What had I been thinking?
That Bowie would see a date arriving and dropping me off. That’s what I’d been thinking. I wasn’t about to unpack that thought. Not while Mr. Misogyny was preening in front of me.
How much would it cost to Uber back to Bootleg?
I didn’t date in town when it could be helped. Bootleg was my whole life, and I preferred to meet potential suitors/disasters on neutral turf. Plus, I’d dated just about every eligible man in town by now. I needed fresh meat. I had a feeling Baxter here was past his expiration date.
“She can sit there lookin’ pretty as a peach, but ask her to do a simple task like make sure everyone gets paid on time while our accountant is on house arrest and she’s useless. Poor gal screwed something up with the server and the payroll system went down on payday.” He shrugged, not giving a damn. “Not my fault that no one told me not to turn off the backup server.”
“I’m guessing not much is ever your fault,” I predicted.
He plucked that damn toothpick he’d been sucking on out of his mouth and pointed it at me. “You’re damn right. I knew I liked you. You know what else ain’t my fault?”
I didn’t, but I was afraid he was going to tell me.
“That you’re so pretty I think I’m gonna hafta kiss you before the night is over.”
Gross. Barf. Disgusting.I mentally ran through a list of pressure points to squeeze.
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
Jesus, when had dating gotten so hard?I first made the mistake of joining the wrong app and getting bombarded with dick pics for a week. Not that I didn’t take great pleasure in responding with a picture of my badge and an explanation of assault. Now, I had to weed out the losers and assholes based on doctored pictures and vague profiles.
Baxter here billed himself as a small business owner who enjoyed giving back to the community. He was slick and plastic-looking. His blond hair was gelled back from his too-orange-for-natural tanned face. He wore a suit and instead of a tie, accessorized with a thick patch of chest hair and a large gold cross. I guessed the only giving back to the community was the amount of money he spent on things like legal representation in sexual harassment lawsuits.
He chuckled like I’d just told a funny story that ended up with me naked with another girl. When he reached across the table and took my hand, I’d had enough.
“You know what, Baxter?”
My threat about him keeping all his fingers only if he kept them off of me was interrupted by the maître d’ fussing over the chairs at the next table.
Mirabella’s was a fancy Italian place where the draperies were heavy, tables were too close together, and I was scared shitless about spilling my dinner on the pristine white tablecloths. Some unlucky couple was about ready to watch me spill Baxter’s guts on the table.
“Your server will be with you in a moment,” the man said to the couple.
“Thank you.”
Oh, holy hell in a damn handbasket. That voice.
