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Frowning now, West is wholly in denial over the very concept of me not remembering him. He’s so hot and special. How could any woman look at his beautiful face and killer bod without memorizing every feature? While he suffers from a kick to his ego, my hand slides down his shoulder to his elbow.
“You’re probably too busy,” I say and step back.
“No, babe, I’ve got what you need.”
I nearly laugh in his face. Is this what happens to staggeringly sexy men who’ve never needed decent pickup lines before?
“I don’t understand,” I mumble, despite needing shade and hydration.
“Let me get you a slice while we talk things out.”
“That’d be real sweet of you, um, I didn’t catch your name.”
“West Mercer.”
“West?” I ask as we walk to the front door of an establishment I was so very recently tossed out of. “That’s cool. Is it a nickname?”
“No, it’s on my birth certificate and everything.”
“Wow,” I say, staring in awe like my dad taught me to when I was little. Gary Toomey would have me con old people into looking in the wrong direction while he robbed them. My little kid's “WTF?” expression always did the trick.
“And what’s your name?” he asks as we enter Pam’s Pizza.
I shiver with delight as the chilly air makes sweet love to my overheated flesh.
“No,” says the blonde waitress, so blinded by her hate for me that she doesn’t even notice the golden hunk standing at my side. “You can’t come back inside.”
“Hey, Di,” West says in a voice capable of melting through the steeliest heart. “She’s with me. Is that gonna be okay?”
Flipping her switch from sneering bitch to lovestruck slut, Di giggles and swoons under the weight of West’s delicious smile. I ought to slap her for making eyes at my date. I mean, I totally would, too. Fortunately for her, I’m mostly a pacifist. And not just because my upper body strength rivals a toddler’s.
Di walks us to a table and hands him a menu. I’m torn. I really need to wash up in the ladies’ room. However, if I leave these two alone, will the waitress be swinging on his dick by the time I return? Huh, well, I’m too sweaty not to roll the dice.
In the bathroom, I refuse to take my reflection personally. The harsh lighting’s a total mind fuck. Plus, what man doesn’t love when a woman’s skin color is the same red shade as her hair?
I stick my head under the faucet and let my body catch up to how it’s no longer dying from the heat. Sure, after my face shower, I look a mess with hair matted to my forehead and smudged makeup. No longer solidly bright pink, I’m blessed with pale streaks across my flushed face.
“You’re gorgeous,” I tell myself. “That’s why West Mercer is buying you a slice of pizza and all the water you can order before they finally cut you off. Just a little fixup, and you’ll be fine.”
I brush my hair and wipe away my smudged eyeliner. I look almost sexy in an “I partied hard last night and don’t mind the walk of shame” way.
Returning to the table, I expect Di to be batting her fake lashes at the hunk paying for my lunch. Instead, West sits alone, tapping his hands to “Let the Bad Times Roll.”
“What song is this?” I ask, sticking to the flirty thing until I get my food.
“Offspring.”
“You’re really smart. Do you know a lot of music?”
Okay, so there are moments when my fake-ass bullshit makes my stomach hurt. I also want so badly to laugh in the face of whatever dumb fuck believes my terrible lies.
However, I don’t laugh at West. Leaning back instead, I admire how he’s gotten hotter in the last five years. He lost the softness left over from his childhood. He’s all macho man now.
“What’s your name?” he asks, ignoring my question about music.
“Alexis.”
“Toomey?”
