by Brit Benson
“You were here first, yeah. But you were standing there surveying the shelf for a pretty long time,” he says with a smirk. “Some of us have places to be. It’s not thieving to just sneak past ya and grab what I need.”
“It’s line jumping, which everyone knows is poor social etiquette, and it is thieving, because that bottle is mine.”
“Poor social etiquette?”
“Mmhm.”
“Is it poor social etiquette to blatantly check out a stranger at the grocery store, too?” He raises his eyebrows, grin still affixed to his mouth.
I huff out a laugh. “Please. I was not checking you out. I was surveying you for weaknesses in case I have to resort to violence.”
His answering bark of laughter makes me lose my grip on my poker face, and I smirk.
Okay, maybe this particular social interaction isn’t the worst.
“Resort to violence?!” He laughs. “I’m like twice your size.”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” I croon. “Don’t underestimate me just because I’m small. It could be your undoing.”
He watches me for a minute, eyes sliding over my face, my body. I can actually feel his gaze on me, and I try to imagine what he sees. Amber eyes, freckles, nose ring, chap-sticked lips, turquoise dipped black hair. The old Green Day shirt and plain black distressed skinny jeans I’m wearing are snug and show off what little curves I have, and I’m rocking my Doc’s. (Thrift store find. Twenty bucks. Fucking treasure.)
For a brief moment, I wish I would have taken the time to change and at least peek in the mirror before I left work. I’m sure I have helmet head from the bike, there’s a damp spot on my jeans from a beer spill, and I smell like a bar. I feel just a teensy bit self-conscious, but then it passes. If he doesn’t like what he sees, screw him. The big, beautiful jerk.
When his eyes land on my lips again, I clear my throat loudly and force a frown.
“So, Butch, you gonna hand over my property or do I have to overpower you and take it myself?”
“Butch?” He jerks his head back, amused and confused.
“Butch Cassidy? Train and bank robberies? A famous burglar. Don’t tell me you’re a thief and uncultured.”
He chuckles and gives me a shrug.
“Just a pretty face, then,” I shake my head and sigh. “Such a shame.”
“You think I’m pretty.”
“I have eyes.” I fold my arms over my chest and look away, feigning boredom. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a criminal.”
“I’ll tell you what.” He mimics my stance and hits me with an all-business stare. “I’ll trade you for the vanilla.”
I purse my lips before asking, “What do I have to give?”
“I’ll trade you this vanilla for your number.”
Oh. Well, okay then. This is a no-brainer.
“I told you before that I don’t associate with criminals.”
“But if I give you the bottle, then I wouldn’t be a criminal. I’m not stealing; it’s all just one big misunderstanding.”
“And what if this isn’t your first offense? How do I know you’re not trying to trick me? Get my number, then make off with the goods?” I squint my eyes at him. “You could be trying to set me up for a bunch of cold calling campaigns. Or planning to put my number on a billboard or a bathroom stall. How do I know you can be trusted?”
Pretty sure I’ve got this boy eating out of the palm of my hand. He’s trying so hard not to let his smile take over his face, trying and failing, and his brown eyes are dancing with humor. He’s amused. He’s having fun, and I’m suddenly not tired anymore.
“You bring up good points.” He pauses. “I don’t suppose you’ll take my word for it.”
I laugh and roll my eyes.
“Of course not,” he chuckles. “I’ll let you buy it first? You can buy it and put it in your car, and then give me your number.”
I pretend to think it over.
“If we do it that way, you’ll stay on the sidewalk until I’ve secured the product, and then I’ll shout my number to you.”
He laughs, giving an amused shake of the head before nodding his agreement. “Deal. Shake on it?”
He sticks out his hand, and I narrow my eyes at it. Then I meet his gaze, pop a brow, and slowly reach out to take his hand.
It’s warm and calloused. His grip is firm, but not crushing, and I have a feeling his hands could do some serious damage if he wanted them to. The thought sends a shiver through me. The way his eyes flash with heat tells me he noticed, so I drop his hand and head to the check out.
He follows me out the door, the bottle of vanilla and the store receipt clutched in my hand. When we’re on the sidewalk, I turn around.
“You stay here,” I remind him, pointing to the sidewalk where his feet are planted. “No moving.”
“Cross my heart.” He uses his index finger to draw an X on his chest, and I have to hold back my smile at how serious he looks.
I take my first few steps backwards, keeping my eyes on him, until I’m about twenty feet away. Then I pivot on the ball of my foot and sashay to my bike. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I might not have much in the curves department, but what I do have, I know how to work. When I reach Baby, I put the vanilla and my purse in the saddle bag, unlock my helmet, then turn back around to face the guy. I lean on my bike lightly and smirk at his shocked expression.
People never expect me to be riding a motorcycle. It’s one of the reasons I love it.
We stare at each other for a moment, me with my smirk and him with his wide, surprised eyes. The connection creates sparks, even with a parking lot between us, and I have to breathe slowly to steady my heartbeat.
“Is the package secure?” he shouts from the curb, and I reach down and pat the saddlebag.
“Snug as a bug in a rug.”
“Okay. I held up my end of the bargain. It’s your turn to hold up yours.”
“Hmmm, what was my end, again?” I cock my head to the side and watch as he grabs the back of his neck and smiles at the ground. It’s so boyishly adorable, so magnetic, that I kind of hate him a little. This guy is dangerous.
“Your number,” he reminds me.
“Oh yeah,” I say with grin. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one?” His handsome face scrunches up in confusion.
“Yep. Thirty-one.” I stifle a giggle.
“Thirty-one is not your phone number.”
“It’s not,” I respond slowly. “But you didn’t specify what number you wanted.” I shrug. “Thirty-one is the number you get.”
As I swing my leg over my bike, I hear his rumbling laugh again, exasperated and amused. I’m just about to push my helmet on my head when he calls out.
“Sundance! Hey, Sundance,” he shouts, and I can’t help the huge smile that stretches over my face. That scoundrel said he didn’t know Butch Cassidy, and here he is calling me Sundance. “I didn’t get your name.”
I look at him, smile wide, and roll my eyes. “Bummer for you.”
Then I shove my helmet on my head, rev Baby to life, and cruise out of the parking lot without a backward glance.
When I get back to my apartment, it’s past one in the morning, and I have a 9:30 a.m. class tomorrow. Ivy is probably asleep, so I move silently toward the kitchen. I put the vanilla in the cupboard and take a minute to admire it on the shelf. It’s such a luxury. Makes me feel rich for a hot minute.
I flip off the kitchen light and walk to the sliding doors to our small balcony. I gaze longingly at my wicker bowl chair. I had plans that included that chair, my new romance novel, and a glass of wine tonight. Three of my favorite things: sexy romance novels, wine, and solitude. Hate love, but love romance novels. At heart, I’m basically a forty-year-old divorcee (who caught her ex cheating with the twenty-one-year-old secretary, so she dumped his lying ass and is now living comfortably on alimony payments without guilt. Duh.) Add in a pool boy and pack of Virginia Slims that “I o
nly smoke when drinking” and I could practically be an ex-Beverly Hills housewife.
If I hadn’t been called in to work, and then gotten distracted by the sexy stranger with the Harry Styles hair, I’d probably be able to bust out maybe half the book. Definitely would have gotten some dick. Fictional dick, but usually that’s better anyway.
I smile at the thought of my convenience store thief, Butch Cassidy, and my chest warms. That was an in real life meet-cute if I’ve ever seen one. I didn’t think that shit actually happened outside of books and movies. I guess forfeiting a few chapters of contemporary erotica to flirt with the hot guy in the baking aisle isn’t a big deal.
In my bedroom, I take out the cash I made tonight and divide it up. Fifty bucks is pretty decent for a slow Wednesday night. I put forty of it back in my wallet to be deposited in my bank account to help cover usual expenses, and I take the remaining ten and shove it into the Crisco can I keep in the back of my closet. I update the total on the pink sticky note inside the can and scowl at it. I’ve been saving for six months and it’s like I’ve barely made a dent in my goal. I’m hoping the promotion at work will help, but it’s still taking too long. The sense of urgency, of guilt, is overwhelming.
It’s been almost three years, already. Not for the first time, I curse myself for not starting sooner. For not thinking of it sooner.
If I can win this cookie contest... That two grand would be a game changer. I could make my deadline. He deserves at least that.
I have to win this contest. I kiss my fingers, press them over the tattoo on my chest, and murmur a promise. I will win this contest.
I shove the Crisco can back into my closet, grab a sleepshirt, and head into the bathroom that I share with Ivy. I need to scrub the bar smell from my body before I crash into bed. Then it’s another day of classes and experimental baking.
Hopefully I can squeeze some fic-dick in there, too.
At least I don’t have to work again until Saturday.
* * *
By the time Saturday evening rolls around, I’ve almost forgotten about the baking aisle boy. I did think I saw someone similar on campus today, and once yesterday I thought I heard his laugh. But otherwise, he’s just a fuzzy memory, fading from my short-term memory, never to be fantasized about again.
Saturday nights at Bar 31 are always hopping. I’m closing tonight, so I can make a cool $200 at least, and it will be easy money. Rum and Cokes, vodka cranberries, and way too many Jaeger bombs.
College kids and their distinguished pallets. Ha.
Around 1 a.m., Thirty minutes before I get to climb on a stool and shout LAST CALL into the bar microphone, a familiar hand slides into my line of sight.
A sexy hand.
With woven bracelets tied to a thick wrist.
I allow myself one small smirk before meeting his chocolate brown eyes.
“You found me,” I shout over the music and crowd noise.
“I did. It wasn’t too hard. I’ve been in here every night since Thursday.”
I pop a brow and fight a smile. “So, you’re a stalker as well as a thief.”
His smile is immediate, his perfectly straight teeth on display.
“We’ve established I’m not a thief. And I consider myself more an investigator than a stalker. You told me thirty-one. I solved the riddle.”
I nod. Gotta admit, his determination is hot.
“Does this earn me your phone number?”
His voice is quieter, no longer shouting over the noise, because we’ve somehow gravitated closer. I’m leaning over the ice chest, him over the bar top, and we’re mere inches apart. I take a moment to study him. Thick eyebrows, thick lashes, thick lips. I wonder what else on him is thick...
A guy to my left is waving his card at me, so I give a “hold that thought” finger to the attractive man monopolizing my time and head to make a drink.
Or five drinks. Jaeger Bombs. And a five dollar tip. Score.
I can feel my mystery man’s eyes on me the whole time. I like it a little too much.
I walk back to him, and he’s folding a napkin into a floppy origami crane. His long fingers are so precise and careful, exactly the opposite of what I’d expect. Those big hands, those callused fingers. This guy is dangerous, but I think I could handle a little danger if it means having those hands on me for a night.
I reach into the back pocket of my tight jeans for my Sharpie, then I grab his hand and flip it over so his palm is up. I jot my phone number onto his palm, writing slowly, prolonging the skin-to-skin contact. When the last digit is written, I make eye contact and blow lightly on his palm to dry the ink. His pupils dilate, my core tingles, and then I walk away.
I have Ben, the other bartender, switch me sides, and I don’t see Butch Cassidy for the rest of the night.
When I finally get to my locker at 2:30 a.m., I have three text messages.
Unknown: Hey. My name is Alex.
Unknown: I’m putting you in my phone as Sundance until you tell me your name.
Unknown: Have a good night.
My smile is bigger than it should be.
* * *
Better With You, book two in the Better Love series, will be here Fall 2021.
Add it to your TBR now!
Sit back, ya’ll. This is gonna be a long one. (Or skim for your name. That’s cool, too.)
I’m not too proud to admit that this book would be a trash heap of jumbled scenes and half-finished chapters if not for a handful of people. I would be too, probably. Between my self-doubt, flare-ups of imposter syndrome, utter lack of knowledge regarding independent publishing, kid-packed schedule, and fleeting attention span, the obstacles were ABUNDANT. I am beyond hashtag blessed to have had such an amazing support system cheering me on and moving me forward. If it weren’t for you guys, well, I wouldn’t be up at 2 a.m. writing these acknowledgements while drinking wine and crying happy tears.
First, to the ARC readers, bloggers, and bookstagrammers who decided to take a chance on a new author and picked up Love You Better. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Every page read, every review posted, every like, share, and comment are so very appreciated. You elevate my purpose for writing. Releasing a book is kind of terrifying, especially when it’s your first, and you all helped to make this a positive and memorable experience.
To Murphy Rae for designing this gorgeous cover. You used your creativity and talent to fill in the holes of my vision and brought it to life in a way that I never could have imagined. You captured Ivy and Kelley to a T, and the cover is the perfect representation of their relationship and this story. Not to mention, you’re one of the easiest people to work with I’ve encountered so far. How are you so chill and cool? Teach me your ways.
Thank you to the authors and industry professionals in this community who graciously helped me through the self-publishing process. Thank you for putting up with my questions, and for never once telling me to STFU (to my face, at least). Navigating this process would have been so much harder and less enjoyable if it weren’t for your guidance.
Trilina Pucci, Jenna Hartley, and Ella James, for taking the time to not only read this when you didn’t have to, but to also provide detailed feedback, thank you so much. This book is lightyears better than the one I sent you months ago, and so much of that improvement is thanks to your suggestions and honesty. You ladies are absolute gems in the book world.
Lauren Asher, you deserve an extra special shoutout for putting up with so much shit from me. Your patience and kindness has been a godsend. One day, you’ll regret giving me those digits. Hopefully that day is not too soon lol.
To my editor, Rebecca at Fairest Reviews Editing Services, thank you so very much for helping me transform my chaotic mess of story-telling thoughts into an actual, readable, well-written novel. You whipped this baby into shape like the pro you are, and you handled my frequent changes and love for flowery run-ons with poise and patience. My lane is your lane, friend. Enter as you please.
To Jess, who not-so-subtly hinted that I should change Ivy’s career path, and then allowed me to ask a billion questions regarding LSATs, law internships, law firms, and fields of law in general. Thank you, and you were right. She’s a better lawyer. That statement is here in print and PUBLISHED, so feel free to frame it.
To my sister, who inspired most of the Bailey/Ivy exchanges, especially the one in chapter six. Big doesn’t mean better *cheers*. I fucking love you. Let’s keep the real and ridiculous conversation topics flowing.
To my beta readers, Melanie, Dawn, Caitlin, Brook, Haley, Sarah, Jenn, and Ruth: Your feedback was crucial to giving Ivy and Kelley the story they deserve. Thank you, thank you, thank you for every word of critique and praise. (Please never leave me because B’s book is hefty and Imma need you again pretty soon...)
Brook, your notes were SO FRIGGEN HELPFUL, so never again apologize for being thorough. You’re not nit-picky, you’re brilliant. Thank you x infinity.
Haley, my booksta-neighbor bae, your love for Kelley fills me with so much happiness. Thank you for being his first big fan (other than me). Let’s get drinks soon and I’ll let you know what I’m dreaming up for J.
Sarah, you got your shout out above but I’m putting you here, too, because you’re just that special. And also so I can do this: [Insert ornamental scene break] [Random numbers].
Ruth and Jenn, my bestie and my seester, thanks for putting up with my bullshit for so long (like, literally over a damn decade) and also for joining me on this journey. Your support and encouragement mean the world to me. Please stay with me for many more decades. Margs and nachos soon, yeah?