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"What the hell is that anyway? Women must wear skirts. Is this 1950?" She moves closer to the sign, inspecting it for some clue as to its date.
"This place has the best seafood in the area."
"Hmm." She looks to me. Then to the sign. Then to me. "And that's worth going back to a time when people weren't sold on women voting?"
I can't help but laugh.
"I know my canvas kicks fit in with the rock star associate thing. But they're not nice enough for this place." She lifts her foot to show off her bright pink canvas sneakers. They match the sweater hanging over her shoulders.
It's a cute outfit and the color looks good on her.
But I still want to rip that sweater in half. Even the tiny top under it is too much fabric. I'm losing interest in talking about this music video.
That isn't me.
I don't let my cock take the driver's seat.
I want to fuck Lacey. But that has to come after we settle the rest of this.
She tugs at her sweater, attempting to adjust it to cover the bare skin of her stomach. It's not happening, but it's fucking adorable watching her try.
I nod to the host stand. "Watch this."
She shoots me a look that screams you're an egomaniac. But it also screams and I like it.
This is a nice place. They should ask us to leave—I'm in a t-shirt and jeans and Lacey is in those adorable shorts and that tiny top.
We're not dressed for a nice place.
We're riffraff.
But fame is a get-out-of-jail-free card. It's almost annoying how easy it is to snap my fingers and get exactly what I want.
I place my hand on the host stand and wait. A man in a black button-up shirt and black slacks moves towards me. He tilts his head to one side. He grimaces like he's bracing himself for an awkward conversation.
Then his eyes meet mine. They fill with recognition. His frown turns upside down. His hands press together.
His gait speeds.
He steps behind the host stand with a smile. "One for dinner or—" He nods to Lacey, still a few steps behind me.
"Two," I say.
"Of course." He pulls two menus from the stand.
Lacey stares at me, shaking her head with mock incredulity. You awful celebrity show-off. At least, I think it's mock incredulity. Usually, I read people well. Right now, my cock is butting in to scream who cares what she thinks of you as long as she wants in your bed?
Time to press my luck. I motion to the dress code then to the host. "Do you mind?"
He stammers. "Of course not. That's just to keep out the beach crowd. You understand what it's like, when the wrong type of person shows up some place."
"Of course." I nod to him then turn back to Lacey. "We wouldn't want to dine with the wrong type of people, would we?"
Her lips curl into a smile. "No, sweetheart, we wouldn't want to deal with the hoi polloi." She stares back at me. Do you really think that?
I shake my head and offer her my hand.
She takes a step forward. Her fingers brush my palm. Her dark eyes fix on the ink on my wrist, then they're on mine.
