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I trail off, getting snarled in the tangle of my thoughts. Because it’s hard to picture this imaginary right woman, especially with Danielle in front of me. Whenever this girl is near, all other women are shoved from my mind.
Even when she’snotnear, for that matter. Danielle has lived rent-free in my brain for the last six months.
But she’s too young for me. Too sweet, too off limits by far. She’d never want an old brute like me, and it’s best not to even kid myself about that. Better to be realistic.
“You want to practice your boyfriend skills,” she says flatly. It’s hard to read the tone of her voice, but her shoulders are tense. They’ve climbed up around her ears.
“Husband skills,” I correct. If I’m doing this, I’m not messing around. I want the whole nine yards. “You can tell me what I’m good at. Where I’m rusty, and where I need work. And I’ll, uh…”
Shit, what can I offer in return? Didn’t think this far ahead. Didn’t even think I’d have the balls to ask this of my beautiful bartender. What now?
But I don’t have time to come up with some kind of payment, because Danielle’s nodding already, chewing on her bottom lip. Those piercing blue eyes are fixed to the floorboards, and even when she speaks, she won’t meet my eye.
“Deal. I’m in.”
My heart judders, then starts thumping again even harder. “You are?”
“Yeah.” The toe of her sneaker digs at the floor. “You can practice your husband skills on me, Kingston Holt. I don’t mind. But—” she looks up, suddenly alarmed, “only outside work. I don’t want this to affect my job.”
Holy shit. She’s really in? “Agreed.”
It’s more than I ever hoped for. More than I dreamed. And she doesn’t want anything in return? Seriously?
She must expect to getsomethingout of this too, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine what that is. But fine—if this sweet young thing doesn’t mind an older, scarred up ex-con wooing her for a few weeks, I sure as shit won’t complain.
“Alright. So… maybe I’ll take you out tomorrow? On a date?”
She puffs out a laugh, and her eyes are all damp again. Those are still happy tears, right? “Yeah. Maybe you should.”
I wait until she’s gone, staggering back out into the bar with the pink neon vest clutched against her chest, then I sag against the desk for support.
Jesus Christ. Can’t believe that worked.
Now what?
* * *
I watch from the King’s back door as Danielle strolls to her bicycle at the end of her shift, her little hips swaying as she walks. It’s still light out, the sky tinted lavender. The parking lot’s dusty after so many weeks without rain, and the patches of grass lining the concrete are all dried and crunchy.
Out by the road, the air shimmers over the baking tarmac. It’s been hot as sin today, but Danielle’s chugged plenty of water. I’ve been keeping tabs.
Words line up on my tongue, but I swallow them back. Not going to call out to her—no, I’m gonna see if she wears the vest without me reminding her.
Danielle’s bike slumps against the chain link fence that lines the back of the King’s property. That’s where she locks it during her shift, weaving the bike lock between the metal loops, then sliding the key into her pocket.
It’s pretty far from the back door. Never noticed that before.
I swear: by her next late shift, she’ll have one of those bike stands right by the doorway. Directly under the security light.
Danielle wanders over at a leisurely pace, gathering her black hair in a messy topknot, then tying it in place. Her neck is pale and slender. Her t-shirt has slipped off one shoulder, and her backpack gapes open at the top.
She crouches, fiddling with the bike lock. It comes undone after some jiggling, then it goes away in her backpack, stuffed in without ceremony. From across the parking lot, I watch the flash of hot pink as she pulls out the vest.
It’s big on her. Should have thought of that, because even though I bought a women’s size, it drowns her. Drops way past her hips. But Danielle knots it at her waist, just like her t-shirt, and when she slings her leg over the bike, she’s smiling a secret smile.
Good girl.
The words drift across my brain, but I don’t call out to her. I grit my teeth and linger in the doorway, watching from the shadows as Danielle starts pedaling, working harder at first then picking up speed across the parking lot.
