She looks like she’s saying: I’m perfect, don’t you know?
“Yes, I do know that,” I say, then bend over her throne to tap her little wet nose. She licks my face, letting me know she forgives me for even suggesting she’d be less than a lady while I’m gone.
I head to the garage, tapping a note to Maddox on my phone as I go. Guess what I’m doing tonight? Taking the scooter you got me as I head out on a date!
His reply is instant. A date with a bad boy?
I laugh, shaking my head. He’ll be so proud of me. I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m taking a good guy out for a spin. So there.
Enjoy the ride. And of course I mean the…guy.
As I sling on my helmet, I write back: Maddox, who’s bad now?
Then I tuck the phone away and dial into the moment.
Not the past and my long-ago lust for Gabe Clements. But the present and the challenge. As I ride through the neighborhood streets, I imagine leaving a trail of bad boys in the dust.
I’m living in a new town where I’m going to be a new woman. A woman who knows how to pick ’em. Not a woman who gets tangled up with cons, jerks, and thieves.
I turn onto the busy main road, then park on the sidewalk outside Gin Joint, hop off the scooter, and unsnap the helmet. I peer in the window, fluffing my hair.
But before I push open the door to the too-cool lounge, the butterflies flap wildly in my chest.
Again.
I’m about to have a drink with the guy I harbored a wicked, forbidden crush on when I was in high school. Back then, I was fifteen. He was twenty-five. He was all kinds of off-limits, and yet Gabe Clements sleeping on my parents’ couch in all his muscly, bearded glory was my goddamn sexual awakening when I was busy growing boobs.
Well, I sneaked downstairs, of course and watched him sleep. I had no choice!
The butterflies race through me, kicking up naughty fantasies again.
Oh, hell.
What have I done?
Gabe might be a sweetheart, but there’s no way I can make it through an evening with the man without blurting: Do you know how many orgasms I imagined you giving me while I was under my polka-dot comforter late at night?
The answer? Countless.
But the man wasn’t only my teenage crush. He was my college fantasy too. When I saw him at his aunt’s eggnog-tasting party, I pictured him throwing me over his shoulder and stalking up the stairs, then manhandling me against the door of her guest room.
Stop, Ellie. Just stop.
I can’t linger on those dirty dreams.
I’m simply going to act…cool, casual, and totally unruffled by the filthy forbidden fantasies of my younger years.
I head into the speakeasy. Sensual lounge music greets me, a tune about how longing can drive you mad. It’s the kind of song you listen to on a hot afternoon as the fan rattles overhead, and you pour a stiff drink while lingering on thoughts of a lover.
Not helpful, sound system.
I should have suggested an alternative to Gin Joint. Counter offered with the Surf Shack or Tony’s Beachside Darts and Brew. Something easy with fries and margaritas and sunlight.
Gin Joint is low lights, pulsing music, and plush velvet couches. It’s foreplay.
But I’ve got this. I’m Reformed Ellie tonight, and I’m on a good-guy mission.
I avoid the chaise lounges and head straight for the bar. The bar is safer than the inch-closer-to-me vibe of the couch. As I weave past couples and groups of guys and gals, I’m hunting for the six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, steel-chested football player. But I don’t see Gabe, so I set my helmet on the bar, grabbing a stool at the end of the sleek metal counter. I’ll just take a moment to catch my breath before he comes in.
As I hop up on a black stool, a big hand spreads across my lower back, right below my tank.
On my exposed flesh.
It could be any guy, but instinctively, I know it’s Gabe.
Big and strong.
Then, as his fingers tug on the end of my tank, a deep, growly voice floats past my ear. “Better than jean shorts.”
So much for Cool Ellie. I’m already lava hot.
8
EARLY BEDTIME
Ellie
I turn to face my good-guy date, breath hitching as I take in his dark, broody eyes, and his lush lips.
Then, the rest of him.
And Gabe looks gooooood in well-worn jeans that hug his thighs and a black T-shirt that stretches deliciously over his pecs. Not too tight and saying look at me, but not too loose and saying he doesn’t care.
The whole casual ensemble is just right for this Goldilocks.
His T-shirt hits his biceps, showing off the ink on his right arm. His skin is lined with black art, from flames to abstract geometric designs, with stars and sunbursts curving over and under the fine lines.
A well-designed sleeve makes me murmur oh, yes.
My curious gaze travels to his face once more. His mouth is sinful, and his dark chocolate brown eyes are already undressing me.
“You look good, Ellie Snow,” he says, in a sexy rasp that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. “And I knew pink would be just your color.”
My brain goes haywire with lust.
I swallow, searching for words, but my libido hid them all. I need to speak soon.
As in…now.
“Um, your jeans are nice too,” I blurt out.
What kind of drivel was that? Your jeans are nice? Am I fifteen again?
He spreads his fingers across my back, making a statement. Mine. “Glad you like them. Want a drink?”
A drink. Yes! I can do this. I can order something.
Except what do I like to drink? I can’t remember.
Help, universe! Help!
A Shirley Temple? A Coke?
Somewhere in the back of my mind, words form, and I grab them, spitting out, “A piña colada would be nice.”
I cringe. I wouldn’t blame the place for barring me. But the truly mortifying thing isn’t that I had just asked for grandma’s beach cocktail in a place called Gin Joint. It’s the vivid memory of fifteen-year-old me trying to Lolita my way over to him in the kitchen like I did when he offered to make mac and cheese the second time he babysat. Instead, I jokingly asked for a piña colada because it was the only drink I knew of, and somehow, I thought that’d make me sound sexy to him.
But Gabe simply flashes me a charming, confident smile, then says, “A virgin one, Ellie?”
Like he’d said that night, calling me on my bluff.
He’s only going to see me as a little girl. Too young to date.
Is there a start-over button somewhere, please? “Can you excuse me for a second?” I ask, then I scurry to the ladies’ room. After I shut the door, I press my palms to the counter, then talk back to my reflection.
Get your act together. He’s not the off-limits, sexy lawn guy from down the street anymore. He’s an NFL receiver, and you’re a successful actress turned writer. You might have once had a filthy crush on this sweetheart of a man, but you don’t need to act like you’re fifteen and he’s forbidden fruit.
You’re on a date.
I take another breath, reapply my lip gloss, then return to the bar. When I reach Gabe, I give him a smile and a smidge of the truth. “So, I apologize for my evil twin sister who started this date poorly on my behalf. I’ve kicked her to the curb and it’s just me now. To answer your question, I’d love a chardonnay.”