Page 135 of Hopeless
“I can feel you worrying.”
“Yeah?” I snort. “Is that something they teach you as a tier one operator?”
He nips at my ear, always turning a serious moment playful to ease my anxieties. “Mouthy little brat.”
“Yourmouthy little brat,” I murmur as I snuggle into him, my ear against where I can hear his heart beating.
“Yes, Bailey, you’re my mouthy little brat. And I’ll give your mouth something to quiet it down later.”
“Cheesy.”
“Fine.” He unfolds himself from the bed, peeling my spent body off him. “I’ll see you at work tonight. And when we get home, I’ll watch you try to mock me with my dick shoved down your throat.”
I laugh and roll over to look at this beautiful, filthy, funny man who stormed into my life and turned it all upside down.
I think I’m still reeling.
I think I’m overwhelmed.
I think I’m in love with him too.
“See you tonight,” I reply with a wink.
Then he kisses me and swaggers out the door like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
38
Beau
Beau:T-minus six hours until you’re choking on my cock.
Bailey:Lol. But who’s counting, right?
Beau:Me. I’m counting.
Bailey:He’s hot *and* can count. Really, the whole package.
Beau:Will be giving you the whole package in T-minus five hours and fifty-nine minutes.
Bailey:CHEESY.
My palm lands flat against the cool door. The brass push bar across it looks a little worse for wear. I make note of that as I walk into the tail end of the Monday night dinner rush.
The low chatter of conversation hums through the air while George Strait plays over the speakers. Pool balls clatter against each other like a chime in the song.
I catch sight of Bailey behind the bar. Shiny, almost-black hair cascades down over her shoulders.
Her tight, drawn up shoulders.
My eyes race over her. Jaw set stubbornly, movements almost jerky, like she’s trying and failing to act casual.
She’s a terrible liar. Everything about her, from her face to her body language, absolutely gives her away. Something is wrong, and she might as well be a flashing neon sign telling me as much.
The other dead giveaway is Gary, who is sitting up straight with a half-drunk pint in front of him. He doesn’t even have his hand on it. Usually, he never lets it go once she hands it over. It bothers me because I feel like the beer must get warm, which is just very unappetizing. But then I always suppose that he drinks it fast enough for it not to matter.
Either way, he’s rigid too and watching Bailey with a glint of fatherly protectiveness in his eye that I’ve seen before. But today it’s sharper … more sober.
I check my watch.
