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It was Jenni Paulson.
Jenni: Congrats on the win tonight—I heard you played a good game.
Mase: You mean you didn’t watch?
Jenni: I was on the late shift. But I just got done. Where are you at?
Mase: The house. Wasn’t feeling it tonight.
Jenni: Want some company? I can bring snacks.
My mouth twitched. A girl after my own heart.
Mase: Think I’m going to hit the sack. Rain check?
Jenni: Sure. You know where I am. xo
I didn’t reply. Jenni wasn’t needy like that. We hooked up occasionally. No strings. No promises. It was easy. Discreet. Zero drama.
Didn’t hurt that she was a fucking stunner, either. All legs for days and feminine curves. And she had all this raven black hair that I could wrap my fist around and—
Shit.
Now I had a raging hard-on and only my right hand for company. But at least my hand didn’t want to snuggle or talk, or any of that shit girls liked to do after sex.
Emptying my pockets, I stripped out of my sweater and jeans, and dropped my ass to the edge of the bed. Leaning over, I opened the bedside drawer and grabbed the bottle of lube I kept there, slicked up my hand, and wrapped it around my length, fisting myself slowly.
I hissed out a breath as I squeezed myself on the upstroke, conjuring up images of the last time I hooked up with Jenni. Her big hazel eyes staring up at me as she bobbed up and down on my dick.
But the mental image was all wrong.
Her hair wasn’t as black as night; it was blonde like the sun. And her eyes weren’t hazel; they were the bluest of blues.
An icy shudder ran through me because this fantasy was all wrong.
All fucking wrong.
Jenni was perfect—the perfect girl for me. Emotionally unavailable. Busy with school and work. With zero expectations of me or us.
So why the fuck was I imagining Harper Dixon on her knees, ready to suck the tension right out of me?
CHAPTER2
HARPER
“Table’s up, Dixie,”Chad called from the service hatch.
“Better hurry, girl, or he’ll be docking your tips.” Jill, one of the other servers, smirked as we crossed paths.
“This is just the shift that keeps on giving,” I murmured, making a beeline for the hatch.
So far tonight, I’d been cussed at, groped at, and almost puked on. And it was only nine-thirty.
Working a Sunday at Millers’ Bar and Grill wasn’t my usual shift, but Chad, the owner, had called me up asking if I could cover. I had no plans, and I’d heard weekend tips were usually triple a midweek shift, so here I was.
Service with a smile despite all the bullshit I had to endure.
“Dixie, let’s go,” Chad bellowed, making me flinch.
