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I bite the inside corner of my mouth, my brows furrowing together as I appraise him. Clever and good-looking.
Whatever. It's fine. Totally fine. Maybe some fun is exactly what I need. No-strings fun. I keep that thought tucked close to my chest as I smirk at him.
“Try harder next time, playboy.”
He lifts his chin, a wide smile on his too-handsome face. “So, you're saying I got a chance.”
Silence is my only reply, turning to face the window with a hair flip worthy of an Oscar.
“I like those odds, sweetheart,” he says with a chuckle.
It takes everything inside of me to block out the way his gaze feels on my back as I order my butter pecan hot fudge sundae and Cora's strawberry landslide float.
4
NOVA
My heart beats fasterwith each step backward, my eyes glued to the dark-haired goddess. She stood with her back to me, hair sliding across her face every few seconds from the warm breeze. Her faux dismissal is clear. It's a shame it doesn't deter me like I bet she thought it would.
Nah, the fact that such a gorgeous face delivered sass with the charm and ease of an aging southern debutante only piques my interest more. She practically rang the dinner bell with her feigned disinterest.
There are only three things I'm good at in this life: being a fucking amazing uncle, drawing shit on motorcycles, and recognizing when a woman's interested.
And that temptress wearing the hell outta those jean shorts isdefinitelyinterested.
But she doesn't want to give it away too early. Or she caught on to the little bet that sent me over here in the first place. And luckily for the both of us, I can work with either of those scenarios.
I run my hand across my jaw, the stubble scraping against the calluses on my fingers. I remember when I naively thought that choosing art would keep me out of a garage like my old man. It's not that I didn't love working on bikes and cars, but I can admit that I was deep in the trenches of teenage angst for a while. And if my old man wanted me to do it, I'd run headfirst in the opposite way out of sheer spite.
I took my first painting class because I was pissed at my dad for something I can't even remember now. Went to the beach to fuck around and kill time, and ended up watching Mrs. Carter teach a bunch of old ladies how to paint landscapes. Impressionism has never been my favorite style, but I can appreciate it.
Thanks to Mrs. Carter.
I still remember when she told me a talent as good as mineshouldn't be wasted on some punk determined to kill his future.
A small chuckle slips free as fondness settles around my shoulders like a familiar blanket.
“Damn, Nova. She shut you down hard, man.” Gunnar claps my shoulder with a laugh. “Guess you're buying, huh?”
I lift my shoulder to dislodge his hand. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, asshole.”
Gunnar takes his happy-go-lucky ass into The Wild Boar, but I can't peel my eyes from her. From this angle, I have the perfect view of her sitting down at a picnic table on the right side of Uncle Harry's.
“Yo, Terry,” I pitch my voice to the left, where I know the nosy asshole is just lingering.
“'Sup, Nova?” He strolls the ten feet separating us, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
I tip my chin toward my girl. “You ever see her before?”
Terry squints like he hasn't been watching the whole thing unfold like some fucking daytime tv show.
My brows cave in toward the middle, and I shake my head as I look at him. Just under six feet tall, messy dark brown hair with gray at his temples, and a strong weasel vibe. “Man, you're a fucking terrible actor, you know that?”
He laughs, the lines in the corner of his eyes deepening with mirth. “Nah, can't say I know her. Though she does look familiar somehow. Maybe she's one of Helen's girls?”
“Yeah, maybe.” I know she's not though. Helen's girls reek of desperation most of the time.
Or maybe I'm fucking jaded and free pussy has lost its shine after so many years. Helen is the like the den mother to the club bunnies. They're nice girls for the most part, but too many of them believe that a quick fuck in the clubhouse is a gateway to claiming a seat on the back of someone's bike.
