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It was also a big part of the reason I’d made the move to the city in the first place. My siblings had been mortified when I’d decided to set up in Queens, not understanding why I wasn’t staying near to family in Pennsylvania, but I was determined to do this my way. My gramps understood, even if he didn’t like my being so far from home.
But my business partner—and best friend—Easton had been just as excited about it as I was; we’d spent months drawing up plans and scouting locations, working our asses off to make our dream a reality.
As soon as we’d settled on Myrtle Avenue, I knew we’d made the right decision; the neighborhood felt like home in a way that an exclusive area in Allentown never would.
Making my way to the back of the building, I reached behind the bar—the only structure in the whole place that was even close to completed—and pulled out one of the bottles I’d stashed there earlier in the week.
“Why don’t you give this a try?” I offered, holding the unopened bottle of premium whiskey out to her.
“What’d you do to it?” she asked skeptically, eyeballing the bottle like it was a bomb.
“Chill, Betty,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s perfectly fine. Look”—I pointed to the bottle neck—“it’s even still sealed.”
“You know, my name’s notactuallyBetty.”
“I figured. But it suits you.”
She made a face.
“Does it suit anyone, really?”
“I think it does,” I replied. “You’ve got a whole Betty Page thing going on.” I gestured to her, the dark hair and thick bangs only accentuating her big brown eyes. She’d changed out of the wet clothes I’d first seen her in, now wearing a long-sleeved top with an image of a zombie on the front, the wide neck hanging off one shoulder and displaying the tattooed flowers on that side. On her legs she now had a pair of skintight leggings that, from a distance, looked like leather, and I’d have given anything to know what they felt like under my fingers. Her hair was pulled up into a messy knot on top of her head, and, while she’d washed away her ruined makeup, her cheeks were still rosy, the hot blush deepening the longer I looked at her.
And I had no plans to stop looking at her.
“Well, thanks for that,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not every day I get compared to history’s greatest pinup model.”
“I think you could give her a run for her money,” I muttered, not even realizing I’d spoken out loud until she choked out a laugh.
“Now you’re just reaching, Asher Dunn. No need to waste your charms on me.” She took a deep breath, and I didn’t even try to pretend I wasn’t staring at her tits under that gruesome shirt. “The last thing I need stroked is my ego.”
“That sounds like a challenge, Betty.”
“Oh, Asher,” she purred, and I felt my dick stir behind my jeans. “I’m always a challenge.”
I leaned toward her, unable to help myself as her smile turned salacious. As I got closer, a delicious earthy scent filled the air between us, something floral with a hint of coffee, making my head spin.
I might have kissed her.
But I’d never know, because at that exact moment, my dumbass best friend walked through the door like he owned the place.
Which, I guessed, he kind of did.
Half of it, at least.
“Hey, Asher, you get those shelves hung yet or—oh.” Easton froze, a stupid grin spreading across his face as he took in my proximity to Betty. “So sorry to interrupt, darlin’.”
“Nope,” she sputtered, putting several feet between us. “Nothing to be sorry for because there was nothing to interrupt. Just getting the nickel tour of the serial killer den from Asher here.”
“Serial killer den?” Easton asked, turning to me in confusion.
“Don’t look at me,” I insisted, putting my hands up. “Betty here’s the creative one. She concocted quite a tale involving stalkers and power tools and a true crime docuseries.”
“You make me sound like a crazy person,” she growled, and I loved the way she was so easy to rile up.
“Well...” I looked at her in mock sympathy. “You do drink Jameson.”
“Shewhat?” Easton gasped. “No! And here I thought you were the perfect woman.”
