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Winter’s back is to me. She’s bent slightly, adjusting her foot in her heel. Blood pumping and static is all I hear, soaking in just how stunning she looks in her dress.
That dress. Black, half-sleeve, the back draped down to her lower back with a thin black string across the top of her back connecting shoulder to shoulder. The slinky hem dips about a couple inches below her ass and raises slightly higher on the outsides of her thighs, making her silky legs look a mile long.
It’s both classy and the sexiest dress I’ve seen on a woman to date. And Winter in it, is a fucking goddess. Her skin is lightly tanned and smooth. Small clusters of freckles dusting her shoulders. The urge to walk up behind her and kiss them is so strong, for a minute, I’m afraid my legs will move without my consent.
“Winter…” I say so quietly it almost doesn’t make it across the space between us.
She turns, snapping her attention to me and smiles. The most genuine grin she’s given me since we met and fuck if it doesn’t make my chest tighten with a feeling I can’t quite place.
Her lips are red, making them look very much like the upside-down heart they’re in the shape of. Her big brown eyes are darkened slightly. She’s wearing makeup, but not so much her natural beauty doesn’t shine through like a goddamn supernova.
“Hey,” she says. “Whoa, you look handsome… Insweats.” She laughs, making her eyes twinkle under her long black lashes. “How do you look just as regal in joggers and a plain black T-shirt as you do in a suit?”
Words escape me. Being in this room with her, her smell, her long legs, her wavy and slightly messy caramel hair, blonde at the tips… I want to ruin her for all other men. I want to cut the shit on this little game we’re playing and wrap her body around mine like a pretzel and fuck, just fuck her into oblivion.
I wanther. Bad.
I rub my hand over my scruff, desperate to survive this voodoo trance she’s put me under. “Uh… I don’t know. The better question is, how am I going to take you to a bar aptly named Fat Billie’s looking likethat?”
She looks down at herself and her smile falls, sending a shock straight through me. I’ve made her lose her smile and it doesnotfeel pleasant.
“You said to dress more formal, I—”
“I said to dresssexyand you did that. You look gorgeous, Winter.”
Our first compliment and I initiated it. Like I said, I’m losing my mind. Her smile returns tenfold. And that,thatfeeling is rewarding. It’s warm and achy at the same time… What the fuck is this voodoo bullshit?
“I look like a turd going out with you like this. You look likethatand my pants are stretchy.”I’m not used to the feeling.
“It’s fine. We made a deal and we both delivered. And believe me, you still look every bit the stunningly handsome, rich, woman-killer you are, so no worries.”
No worries. This night is going to be a monstrous mistake.
NINE
ALECK
The walk to Fat Billie’s from the resort has been nice. The sun is lowering itself behind the ocean, creating a blanket of undulating light across its surface. The crisp oceanic night breeze is in the process of cooling the sun’s warmth from the atmosphere.
Approaching the bar, we walk past a couple of ogling douchebags smoking cigarettes on the sidewalk, and I suddenly feel protective of Winter. Their eyes are on her, and honestly, whose eyes wouldn’t be? But I don’t like it. Opening the door, I place my hand on her lower back to usher her in as she passes. Her skin is so smooth it feels electric under my fingertips.
Grabbing Winter’s hand, I lead her to the bar, not thrilled about the way every man in the building, including the hipster asshole exiting the restroom still pulling up his damn skinny jeans, stares at her like she’s the only female left on a dystopian planet Earth.
Settling at the end of the bar, Winter looks around with a bright smile curling her red lips. “This place is great,” she says, leaning forward on the bar.
I make it a point not to touch anything.
From where I stand, I see that thousand-dollar tip did little to encourage a deep cleanse.
At the other end of the bar, a man built like a cement truck, laughs as he pours beer into a pint glass from a tap. The beer spills over the glass and coats his hand before he notices the glass is full. His reaction, of course, is to wipe his wet, beer-soaked hand on his stained jeans, and keep on truckin’.
He’s about six-four and the bottom of his—I’m assuming beer—gut is hanging just below the hem of his T-shirt. He ambles our way, a smirk telling me he already knows who we are. I’m the asshole who sent my own booze assuming his would be too cheap, and paid him a thousand dollars to clean the place. A request he obviously ignored.
“Hey, kids. What can I get ya?”
“Billie, I presume?”
He laughs and looks across the bar at his patrons already three sheets to the wind. “I don’t know. What do you guys think? Am I Billie?”
