Page 122 of The Love of My Next Life
“If we do it that way, you’ll stay on the sidewalk until I’ve secured the vanilla, and then I’ll shout my number to you.”
He laughs, giving an amused shake of the head before nodding his agreement. “Deal. Shake on it?”
He sticks out his hand, and I narrow my eyes at it. Then I meet his gaze, pop a brow, and slowly reach out to take it.
It’s warm and calloused. His grip is firm, but not crushing, and I have a feeling his hands could do some serious damage if he wanted them to. The thought sends a spark of lust through me. The way his eyes flash with heat tells me he noticed, so I drop his hand and head to the check out.
He follows me out the door, the bottle of vanilla and the store receipt clutched in my hand. When we’re on the sidewalk, I turn around.
“You stay here,” I remind him, pointing to the sidewalk where his feet are planted. “No moving.”
“Cross my heart.” He uses his index finger to draw an X on his chest, and I have to hold back my smile at how serious he looks.
I take my first few steps backward, keeping my eyes on him, until I’m a safe distance away. Then I pivot on the ball of my foot and sashay to my bike. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I might not have much by way of hips, but what I do have, I know how to work. When I reach Baby, I put the vanilla and my purse in the saddle bag, unlock my helmet, then turn back around to face the attractive almost-thief. I lean on my bike lightly and smirk at his shocked expression.
People never expect me to be riding a motorcycle. It’s one of the reasons I love it.
We stare at each other for a moment, me with my smirk and him with his wide, surprised eyes. The connection creates sparks, even with a parking lot between us, and I have to breathe slowly to steady my heartbeat.
“Is the package secure?” he shouts from the curb, and I reach down and pat the saddlebag.
“Snug as a bug in a rug.”
“Okay. I held up my end of the bargain. It’s your turn to hold up yours.”
“Hmmm, what was my end, again?” I cock my head to the side and watch as he grabs the back of his neck and smiles at the ground. It’s so boyishly adorable, so magnetic, that I kind of hate him a little. This guy isdangerous.
“Your number,” he reminds me.
“Oh yeah,” I say with a grin. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one?” His handsome face scrunches up in confusion.
“Thirty-one.” I stifle a giggle.
“Thirty-one is not your phone number.”
“It’s not,” I respond slowly. “But you didn’t specify what number you wanted.” I shrug. “Thirty-one is the number you get.”
As I swing my leg over my bike, I hear his rumbling laugh again. I’m just about to push my helmet on my head when he calls out.
“Sundance! Hey, Sundance,” he shouts, and I can’t help the huge smile that stretches over my face. That scoundrel said he didn’t know Butch Cassidy, and here he is calling me Sundance. “I didn’t get your name.”
I look at him, smile wide, and roll my eyes. “Bummer for you.”
Then I shove my helmet on my head, rev Baby to life, and cruise out of the parking lot without a backward glance.
* * *
By the time Saturday evening rolls around, I’ve almost forgotten about the baking-aisle boy.
I did think I saw someone similar on campus yesterday, and once Thursday I thought I heard his laugh on the quad. But, otherwise, he’s just a fuzzy image, fading from my short-term memory, never to be fantasized about again.
Saturday nights at Bar 31 are always hopping. I’m closing tonight, so I can make a cool $200 at least, and it will be easy money. Rum and Cokes, Vodka Cranberries, and way too many Jägerbombs.
College kids and our distinguished pallets. Ha.
Around 1 a.m., thirty minutes before I get to climb on a stool and shout LAST CALL into the bar microphone, a familiar hand slides into my line of sight.
A sexy hand.
With woven bracelets tied to a thick wrist.
I allow myself one small smirk before meeting his chocolate brown eyes.
“You found me.”
