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“I suppose. But I had no idea you took such good care of yourself. You look like you’re thirty-one, not forty-one.”
“Wow. Did you really shave an entire decade off?”
“Now, Freddy…I most definitely am not the only person who thinks that.”
“I didn’t have this much gray when I was thirty-one.” I tug at my own hair.
“That’s literally like the only thing. And you rock it very well.”
She helps herself to the last beer in the cooler Braxton left out.
“Thank you, Sadie.”
“And you’re incredibly fit. Since Chicago is large, I’m guessing there’s a variety to pull from. But if you were in Hillpike, many women would be lining up at your door.”
I stand up to shovel a couple of soil piles into the fire. I should make my way inside soon. Sadie’s presence is pure temptation. It would be easy to slip into her garage and let her feel what a forty-one-year-old man can do. I clear my throat, hoping it’ll clear away some naughty thoughts. Thoughts are just thoughts.
“Those flirting skills may score you extra tips at “Nightingale’s.” Just tap into your instincts. Some guys would take what you said to me as a green flag to show you a wild time.”
“Freddy, you’ve got to trust me. I don’t flirt with just anyone.”
Her green eyes, identical to the color of her dress, linger on me. She takes in my physique head to toe in shameless adoration. She’s fucking trouble. I have to make my way inside, or Braxton will beat the “little brother” out of me.
I grind my teeth, shaking my head at this pretty hot thing.
“It may just be past your bedtime, Sadie.”
She bats her eyelashes and lifts her hair into the mocking glam woman hairdo. Elbows bent before me.
“Only if you tuck me in.”
She lets go of her hair. It tumbles down like a waterfall. She cracks open her beer and lets out a wet little laugh. My cock twitches.
“Why are you doing this?”
My question comes out with a laugh, but I’m serious, probably more curious.
She has no idea what all this teasing does to me. I haven’t felt a woman for over eight months, and I could bust right now imagining how incredible she’s got to feel. I bite my bottom lip. She sips her beer, steadily, longingly looking at me.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I think I’m a little drunk.”
“Were you drinking at dinner?”
“Mom and I were drinking chardonnay.”
“Yes, I remember.” And I do. That’s when her red mouth became glossy.
“Was it zesty or oaky?”
She gives me a perplexed look as she reflects on its taste.
“Buttery? I think oaky.”
“When you start working at “Nightingale’s,” you’ll need to be knowledgeable about wine flavors.”
She smiles. “You think I’ll get hired?”
“Jobs like that consider one’s image more than others. And you’re absolutely gorgeous, so why wouldn’t they take you?”
