Page 10 of Never Your Valentine

“That’s stupid,” I tell Annabelle. “You’re the opposite of that.”

“I take it you’re not a business bro either?” Annabelle asks when we’ve collected our drinks and are once again in our booth.

“Not like them.”

“What do you do?”

“I try to keep people happy.” I leave it at that. I’m proud of The Break, but people get funny when you say you run a rage room. I don’t want her to think I’m full of rage. I’m actually the opposite. Right now, I’m full of appreciation, and attraction, and no small amount of lust. Annabelle’s blonde hair is cut into a bob, exposing that delicious place where her neck meets her shoulder. All I can think about is burying my nose in that spot and breathing her in. But it’s not just her golden hair and round face and lush lips. It’s the quick comebacks, and the way she laughs so easily. She’s the most interesting woman I’ve met in ages.

“How do you keep people happy?” Annabelle lifts her drink and raises an eyebrow. “Do you juggle? Play ukulele? Do you strip for them?”

“Your mind went directly there?”

“We took a detour through juggling and ukulele.”

“But stripping is where we landed. Or maybe it’s where you want to land.” I pull at the edge of my flannel shirt and open the kimono. “You mentioned attraction to a hot guy?”

She stops staring at my chest. Meets my eyes. Blinks a few times. “That was hypothetical. I was telling you the rules.”

“Do you have a lot of rules?”

She blinks some more. “I’m forgetting most of them at this moment.”

Oh, I like her. My cock likes her too, and wants me to know. I shift in my seat and tell it to wait.

Annabelle puts down her cocktail. “But I remember that I’m not supposed to go home with a serial killer. That’s an important one.”

“I agree with that.” I lean in and lower my voice. “Are you a serial killer?”

She laughs. It sounds like wind through the pines and soft waves on the lake. “No. How about you?”

“No.”

She taps her chin. “I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

“Except for those fools—” I point to the table full of Keiths. “I’m related to half the people in this bar and I grew up with the other half. They’ll vouch for me.”

Annabelle folds her arms and tilts her head, giving me an amused glare. “I’m not going to ask a bar full of strangers if I can take you upstairs.”

“Of course not,” I say, trying for a carefree tone. “That would be weird.”

This is happening. Maybe. Probably. But I’m not in a rush. I’m willing to let the evening unfold at its own pace because I’m enjoying this too. Lively conversation, banter on the mark, solid flirting. I could do this all night.

“This whole thing is weird,” Annabelle says. “I don’t usually do this.”

“But you want to do this?” I ask. Maybe Annabelle has forgotten her rules, but I haven’t forgotten mine. I don’t make a move until I’m one hundred percent sure of a woman’s interest. I don’t want anyone to have any illusions. She’s going to have a good time with me. I guarantee that. I will worship her body in the way she deserves, and not quit until she’s glowing and content. When I leave, I want her to be happy, feeling like time spent with me was time well spent.

But I don’t guess. I need to be sure. The dance doesn’t begin until she holds out her hand.

Annabelle takes a sip of her cosmo. “We haven’t overcome the serial killer problem.”

I get out my driver’s license and slide it across the table. “Take a picture of it,” I offer. “Text it to anyone you want.”

She picks up the license and I expect her to comment on the dorky photo, but instead she flashes me an open-mouthed smile. “You were born on Valentine’s Day?”

“Unfortunately.”

“That’s so romantic.”