Arm Candy

by Jessica Lemmon

  Okay, that was an asshole thing to add, but whatever. I stand by it. I take that drink.

  “And…what did you tell her?”

  Placing my bottle back on the bar, I lower my voice, which has the desired effect of Grace leaning in to hear me. “I told her no, and then she asked me what I was doing over the weekend.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” She grunts, droll. A pale tinge of pink stains her cheeks. Anger? Maybe. I sure as hell hope so. Anger means jealousy, and jealousy means Grace wants a piece of me.

  Now that we’ve crossed a line, I’m all for it. Dangerous or not, yippee-kai-yay.

  “I turned her down for that too.” I let Grace off the hook. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to go for the platinum, in which case I might be tied up this weekend.” I give her a wicked grin. “Or tying you up this weekend.”

  Grace tosses her head back and laughs, which has the simultaneous effects of me grinning like an idiot and a rogue surge of pride swelling my chest. Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to charming women. But there’s something special about charming this woman.

  “I didn’t text you,” she says when she sobers, placing her hands on the bar in front of her. She’s wearing a high-necked shirt with sleeves, but the shoulders are cut out. The innocuous part of her that’s exposed is oddly thrilling. Especially with a pale pink rosebud visible. I shift my eyes to her face, glance at her diamond nose stud, and meet her gaze again.

  “Change your mind?” I ask, careful not to sound peeved. To be clear, I’m not peeved. I’m curious. When it comes to Grace, insatiably so.

  “Why? Are you going to call the blonde at the gym?” She hoists an auburn eyebrow.

  “How do you know she was blond?” I feign confusion. Grace smiles.

  “I didn’t change my mind. But I’m not going to choose a package beforehand.”

  “No?” I’m intrigued.

  “Nope.” She shakes her head and soft curls coast over her smooth skin. “What if I choose the Davis but decide halfway through the date I want to put my hand in your pants?”

  I shouldn’t have taken that drink. I sputter and cough, and she laughs, the sound tinkling and cherubic. Too bad I know about the horns poking out of her hair. She’s not innocent.

  “Or,” she continues as I clear my throat again, “what if I choose platinum but then learn you’re a horrible kisser? Horrible kissers are notorious for being unable to satisfy me in bed.”

  This time my cough is more a sound of disbelief. My mouth is open, poised to defend myself, as my mind whirls. Satisfying Grace in bed—or in the car—or right fucking here, in the bathroom of McGreevy’s, is a challenge I’m up for.

  She holds me hostage with hypnotizing jade green eyes. “I can be demanding, Davis. I’m not sure you could handle me.”

  I shut my mouth so hard my teeth clack. Then, through the tension humming around us, reply with, “Say the word and you’ll find out.”

  We stay like that for two, three, twelve seconds. I’m not sure. She blinks first, but only because the bell rings over the door announcing a new arrival to McGreevy’s.

  My best friend, Vince, has horrible timing.

  “What’s shaking, guys?” He’s dressed for work—jeans and a button-down, a vest with a watch pocket in the front. Vince has the look of an artist even working in a business setting. It’s admirable. If I lost the suit, who knows what bad luck would befall me? Maybe I am superstitious.

  “I thought you were hanging out with Jackie tonight,” I tell Vince as he sits next to me. I don’t relish the idea of an audience while I strike out with Grace, so hopefully she saves the really humiliating stuff for after he leaves.

  “She’s coming over, so I ordered takeout.”

  I can’t get used to Vince with a girlfriend. Vince with a wife was something to behold, but I can’t remember him this relaxed around Leslie. Vince with Jackie is just…Vince. With Jackie. He’s able to exist in the same space with her yet they’re still themselves—only they’re in love and getting laid a lot more often.

  I’m happy for him.

  “Here you go, Vince.” Grace places the bag on the bar and completely blocks Vince’s face. Only until he pays and takes the bag in hand do I see him again.

  “What the hell do you have in there?” I ask.

  “Four entrées. We get hungry after we work out, so I make sure we have midnight snacks. You know. Work out.” The grinning idiot. He pats the bar, then takes his leave, calling over his shoulder, “See you guys!”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I think it’s sweet,” Grace says to me after he leaves. “He seems like a guy who deserves to be happy.” Before I can agree, she continues, “Never really thought about deserving happiness myself. I’ve always been more of a go-with-the-flow kind of girl.”

  “I would’ve guessed that about you.”

  I have the sudden urge to suss out her story. I want to know what makes her tick, which is a new desire for me. I normally keep my dates surface. Deep diving isn’t my norm.

  “Is that why you won’t choose a package?” I ask, steering her back to the topic at hand.

  “Be honest, Davis. Do the girls you date seriously choose a package?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” Her face scrunches. I hold up a palm as if taking an oath.

  “Hand to God.”

  “Every time?”

  “Not every time. In the case of the one-night stand, we don’t get that far.”

  She harrumphs, which is cute. “Don’t you miss the spontaneity of not knowing what comes next?”

  “I get enough spontaneity at work.”

  “I can’t get enough spontaneity.” Her teeth close over her bottom lip and again my mind goes to what she tastes like. Sweet? Spicy? Sweet and spicy?

  Then she’s off to do her job and I’m in a familiar spot: sitting at the bar, waiting for her to walk by.

  Only now I add to my preoccupations wondering when our date is going to start tonight.

  Grace didn’t technically say yes, but she didn’t say no. That’s as good as a yes.

  Grace

  Davis is still here and it’s pushing eight o’clock. My relief showed up a half an hour ago in the form of Candace. She’s sixty years old and so short she only comes up to my boobs. She’s one of those dames who ride Harleys and cut their teeth in dusty, dangerous biker bars. There’s something pretty about how rough-hewn she is, though. From her smoky, deep voice to the way she can lift a keg.

  “You going to keep that poor boy waiting all night, Grace?” she asks as she stuffs ones in the drawer in every which direction. Facedown, faceup, left, right…I reorganize them when we work together. She’s worked here a few weeks, but already she feels like family.

  “He’s not waiting. He’s always here.” I tell the white lie with a small smile, but I grab my purse from beneath the counter anyway.

  “Yeah, but tonight he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”

  My smile broadens. I can’t prevent it from happening. The idea that a guy is pining for me doesn’t get my rocks off or anything, but the idea of Davis waiting, watching, and anticipating is kind of thrilling.

  Earlier tonight I told him I like to fly by the seat of my pants.

  It’s safe to say I’m ready for takeoff.

  “I’m done, but I have to go home and change,” I tell Davis as I approach from the customer side of the bar.

  “I’ll follow you.”

  That stops me short.

  “Don’t you want to go home and change too?” Not that the navy suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy tie are a bad look. At all.

  Purr.

  “I changed into this for our date.” He stands smoothly, buttoning his jacket. There’s a folded kerchief in his pocket, sticking out a scant inch, but enough so I make out the burgundy and navy plaid print. Damn, he’s attractive.

  “Well. I’m underdressed.” I gesture to my jeans and T-shirt.

  “Overdressed for my taste,
but you were the one who said you can’t commit to a package.” He stands over me, making me feel dainty and delicate, which is no easy task. I’m neither of those things. In his capable, masculine presence, the desire to let him care for me is strong.

  And scary.

  How many men have I watched walk away?

  My dad. My mom’s boyfriend. My boyfriends.

  Thank God I smartened up. No trust equals no heartbreak.

  “You aren’t seriously going to wait for me at my house, are you?” I step into the perfect September evening. Sixtysomething degrees with a cool crispness to the air that makes me long for bonfires and cider and Halloween costumes.

  “Depends.” He places his hand on my lower back, the warmth and comfort welcome and foreign at the same time. “Will you invite me in?”

  “No hanky-panky,” I warn, slowing as we approach my royal blue Mini Cooper with a fuzzy pair of dice dangling from the mirror.

  “On my honor, Gracie Lou, I won’t pressure you. You can come to me.” Davis leans close, his lips over my ear when he adds, “And then you can come for me.”

  My thudding heartbeat manages to pound between my legs as well as in my chest. Doing anything for Davis’s pleasure should feel stifling and unwanted, but it doesn’t.

  Lord, this is such a bad idea. Luckily, the premonition of doom never stopped me before.

  “You’re welcome to a seat on my sofa and a drink from my fridge while I get ready,” I tell him as I slide into the driver’s seat.

  “Can’t wait,” he says before shutting me in. Then he’s walking across the lot to his car—a shiny black Mercedes that he roars to life, pulls from its spot, and idles.

  He’s waiting for me again.

  I really like that.

  Davis

  Grace has a tiny house.

  I don’t mean one of those newfangled houses on wheels with a bucket for a toilet—not a trademarked “tiny house”—just that her house is on the small side.

  A steep-roofed A-frame tucked in a residential area, it’s not clear to me at first if she owns or rents. Rents, I’m guessing. Unless she has an inheritance. This neighborhood is pricey.

  Unsurprisingly, Grace’s house isn’t fussy or overly tidy. The front door opens to a living room and kitchen—one room—and an alcove to the right opens to a bathroom. She jogged upstairs the moment she let me in. The loftlike area at the top of the stairs is her bedroom.

  She’s bent over her dresser across from the bed, pulling out black lace. She gestures with the panties when she says, “In the fridge you’ll find beer and maybe some leftover white wine. Help yourself.”

  “Sure you don’t need my help with anything up there?” My voice is thick, my eyes on the panties. I bet she’s mouthwatering wearing those.

  From the drawer she extracts a black see-through lace bra, hooks it on her finger, and says, “Nope,” before disappearing behind a privacy panel.

  Cruel. She did that on purpose.

  The living room is simple. A red fabric sofa covered in bright yellow pillows and a colorful afghan stands against the wall, flanked by a pair of end tables. One of the tables is cluttered with books, like the shelf next to it. The other holds a lamp and a candle. I grab a beer from the fridge—Sam Adams. Does Grace drink it, or did she buy this brand with me in mind?

  Dangerous thought, that one. I’m flirting with the dating faux pas of overthinking. That’s why the packages come in handy. Then I know what to do next. What she expects.

  Grace is determined to keep me limber.

  I find a glass, not hard to do since there are all of two cabinets in her minuscule kitchen, and empty the bottle into it. There’s a full dish drainer by the sink. The dishes are dry. While I sip my beer, I slide her plates, bowls, and glasses into the cabinet. She catches me as I’m tucking away the last of the silverware.

  “What are you doing?”

  I turn to find Grace wearing a tight black dress with a low V-neck, a long silver necklace’s pendant resting between her full breasts. Her shoes are strappy and high, and her hair is pinned up on one side. Diamond studs wink from her earlobes.

  “You look amazing.” I’m too stunned to say anything more original than that.

  She gestures with the shawl and handbag she’s holding in one hand. “Putting away someone’s dishes is a touch intimate, don’t you think?”

  “Gracie, if that’s what you consider intimate, I have a thing or two to show you.” I place the final fork in the drawer.

  Her lips twist to one side in amusement.

  “Ready to go?”

  “I have to brush my teeth and put on my lipstick.”

  “No lipstick.” I shake my head. “I want to kiss you before we leave.”

  Her bright green eyes light with what I hope is the same lust saturating my bloodstream. She shakes her head as if regaining her footing before backing toward the downstairs bathroom and shutting herself inside.

  Two minutes later, I’m waiting on her couch when the water stops running and the door pops open. She hesitates when she spots me, glancing at her front door. I don’t go to her. I’m curious what she’ll do if I stay put.

  Turns out she walks over to the couch.

  “Now I’m ready,” she says.

  I offer my hand. She thinks I’m asking her to help me up, but I tug her to me instead. In one smooth motion, Grace’s ass is on my lap. Her breasts lift, taking in a breath of anticipation, as she looks down at me. I test the softness of her curls before I palm her neck. I angle her face closer to mine.

  An inch away from making our dreams come true, I whisper against her mouth, “Since you didn’t choose a package, I’m going to have to ask. Kiss or no? What say you, Gracie?”

  But she doesn’t say anything. She lowers her lips to mine for a soft, sweet, slow, sinful kiss. No tongue, but my pants stir, my budding hard-on nudging her hip.

  She pulls back first, her lashes lowering as she looks at my mouth.

  “Silly Davis,” she purrs through her smile. “Didn’t you notice I didn’t put on lipstick?”

  Chapter 5

  Grace

  Honky Tonk is not Davis Price’s style. He’s not dressed for this club, but he also doesn’t care, which I admire. He hasn’t once looked around at the denim-clad crowd and wondered if he should have worn something different. Even I did that, and I’m the one who suggested we come here.

  He’s currently leaning against the bar, longneck in hand, watching me dance.

  I like how he watches me dance.

  He watches like I’m the only woman in here, and I’m not. I share the dance floor with at least twenty other women, most of whom are younger than me and wearing short, frayed cutoffs and knee-high cowboy boots. We keep rhythm together, line dancing in formation. They’re good, but so am I.

  Davis and I went to a five-star restaurant with black tablecloths and low candles and menus in black leather binders. We drank French wine and ate fine, expensive food. We chatted during our meal, some of it polite, and some of it similar to the banter we participate in on any given night at McGreevy’s.

  Being around him is eerily comfortable.

  After we finished eating, he asked what I wanted to do. Rather than order dessert, I suggested an out-of-the-way hole-in-the-wall bar that I knew didn’t carry Sam Adams.

  I peer through my lashes as I wiggle my hips to the beat. Davis, in his suit, sips a Budweiser as he stands in a sea of men wearing jeans and flannels. He smirks as he drinks. He knows I’m putting him through his paces, but he doesn’t seem to mind the challenge.

  Why am I putting him through his paces?

  Because Davis is used to life being easy. I’ve witnessed his dating rituals and habits firsthand. I’ve served buttery nipples and shots of tequila for him to deliver to his blonde du jour. Davis doesn’t have to try to get laid. I want him to know that with me, he’s going to have to try. I’m not easy. Not that I’m a prude or anything.

  I don’t mind having sex on a f
irst date. I like sex. I like Davis. I bet sex with Davis is as delicious as his full bottom lip tasted back at my place. I haven’t kissed him again since, but I’m going to. And then I’m going to go home with him.

  I hide a smile as I put my arms in the air to do another spin. Over my shoulder, I notice Davis relinquish his beer and wade into the gyrating crowd. He doesn’t stop at the sidelines. No, no. He walks right into the center of the line dance. He weaves around girls tossing their hair and waving their arms, snagging my waist as the DJ spins another fast-beat song. The women, my tribe for the three-and-a-half-minute dance, dissipate. Some vacate the floor altogether; others move closer and dance in tight circles of three or four.

  Davis pulls me in to slow-dance to a song that doesn’t require a slow dance. A fast-dancing couple nearly runs me over. His hand flattens on my back and he holds me close, the corner of his lips hitching.

  “I’ve got you, Gracie Lou.”

  I smile, unable to contain my happiness at his attention. Wrists around his neck, I cock my head to one side and savor the slide of his arms at my waist anchoring me to him. He’s doing little more than swaying, but I can tell by the way we rock that he’s matching the song’s rhythm just fine. I wouldn’t be surprised if under the suit he’s sporting Davis Price can cut a rug.

  “You smile a lot when you’re with me,” he says, smiling himself. “It’s the kind of thing that could give a guy like me a big head.”

  “Maybe I think you’re funny.” My voice has a husky quality I didn’t intend. Under the dim lights of the dance floor and the fading buzz from my line dancing, I find this all very fun.

  Davis hums his response. I don’t hear it. I feel it work through his torso and rumble from his chest to my breasts.

  That’s when we lock eyes for the count of three.

  Four.

  Five.

  Before I decide to, I’m leaning in to bite his full bottom lip. His tongue touches mine tentatively, and our mouths mate. The heat engulfing me is as sudden as a brushfire in a drought. I tighten my arms around his neck, wanting to be closer, pushing deeper—wanting more than he’s giving me.