Arm Candy

by Jessica Lemmon

  His gray eyes are fathoms deep, darker from a hefty dose of pleasure.

  It’s enough to make me smile. He smiles back. I swear the earth shakes beneath me.

  Something happened just now.

  Something big.

  Something I’m going to ignore.

  Davis

  Grace follows me to the bedroom, where I pull open a dresser drawer and extract my favorite OSU T-shirt. There’s a hole in the neck and the seams have popped on the sleeves. It’s as soft as fine silk.

  I toss it to her and she catches it by launching a hand out in front of her and stopping the toss midair.

  “That’s some badass kung fu shit right there,” I praise.

  She’s dressed the opposite of when we were making love on my couch—not wearing a bra but wearing her panties. Grace’s breasts are too gorgeous to cover up, but judging by those pale pink nipples sitting like mini marshmallows on the tips, she’s cold and needs a T-shirt.

  Pity.

  “Stop staring.” She’s reprimanding me with a smile. We’ve been smiling at each other like we share a secret, though neither of us knows the other well enough to share what we think that secret is.

  Wouldn’t it be a kicker if it was the same one?

  She holds up the T-shirt, hugging it to her chest. “I don’t have to stay.”

  “What’s with you and the phrase ‘don’t have to’?” I ask, because seriously—what is that?

  She shrugs her shoulders and I mentally trace the dots of the smattering of freckles there.

  “Never noticed these before.”

  “Plight of the redhead,” she comments.

  My fingers go to the dots fading off into the tattoo coloring her shoulder. “Always wanted to touch this.”

  Her breathing goes shallow and I give in to the fantasy of tracing the lines of the roses and thorns, leaves and buds. Then I pause and narrow my eyes in thought.

  “Is there another one?”

  Her mouth forms a small O. “No?”

  “Let me see it.”

  She backs away, her grin returning. Dammit. I knew it. While I was busy with her on her back, I missed the opportunity to see it. She hits the wall next to the bathroom and bites down on her bottom lip.

  “Gracie.”

  “Fine. You’ll see it eventually.” She rolls her eyes. Turns around.

  My mouth goes dry.

  There, on the swell of her right ass cheek, is a shamrock. An honest-to-God shamrock. I laugh, touching it with my index finger before giving her perfect, round butt a squeeze.

  “Why not four leaves?”

  “Cliché.” She peeks over her shoulder at me, in a freeze-frame that’s hot as hell.

  “Are you this into Saint Patrick’s Day, or is this a nod to your Irish heritage?”

  “I liked it. So I got it. Same with the roses.” She turns to face me and I shake my head in admiration.

  “Good reason.”

  “So…are you sure about the shirt?” She holds it over her breasts again.

  Every inch of her body is so sexy I hate for her to wear anything at all. It’s a crime to cover up that porcelain skin and her perfect curves. Nevertheless…

  “No. But put it on. You don’t have to stay forever, but you’re not leaving right away.”

  “Oh, I’m not?” She pulls the T-shirt on. It comes to her hips and her black lace thong teases me from under the T-shirt’s frayed waistband.

  Fuck me, she looks good in my clothes.

  “Didn’t peg you for a snuggler.” She releases her soft curls from the neck of the shirt and drops them on her shoulders. Her bare toes cut through the thick carpeting of my bedroom rug as she comes to me.

  I’m in my boxer briefs and an OSU T-shirt too, though mine’s not as butter soft as the one I loaned her.

  “Silly redhead,” I tsk. “Snuggling is the best part.”

  She can’t tell if I’m kidding, as evidenced by the raised, questioning eyebrow.

  “Couch or bed?” I end the question by gesturing to the bed behind me. I have a fantastic bed. One of those adjustable ones that I’ve loaded up with a down comforter, Egyptian cotton sheets, and a ton of pillows. No, not for the women who accompany me from time to time. For me. I like soft things. Speaking of…I reach out and cup one of Grace’s breasts through the T-shirt.

  “God, they feel even more amazing through worn fabric.” My eyes sink closed. “Is there anything your tits can’t do?”

  I earn a hearty laugh, but instead of swatting me away, Grace steps closer, letting me keep my hand where it is. She tips her chin for a kiss, which I gladly give while taking another for myself. My other hand moves to her other breast and we find ourselves migrating to the bed.

  “Davis,” she whispers when I reach for the inconvenient shirt.

  “Yeah, Gracie?”

  She lifts her arms and allows me to undress her—again.

  Another kiss and we’re falling into a sea of blankets.

  —

  Morning comes and Grace is in my bed. She’s not wearing my T-shirt.

  She’s not wearing anything.

  “Coffee?” I ask before reverently kissing one of her perfect nipples.

  Sun streams through the curtains and paints her in golden light.

  “Or more sex. I’m open to either,” I amend.

  She smiles sleepily and opens her arms. “C’mere, snuggler.”

  An odd term of endearment, but I do, in fact, go there. A minute later I’m wrapped in her arms.

  Not a bad morning at all.

  Chapter 7

  Grace

  Two days after our date, I knock on Davis’s front door. He’s expecting me—I texted him. He said to “come on in” when I got there, but I feel awkward walking in, even invited. Especially after everything that happened.

  Great sex. Great night. Great morning after.

  It’s safe to say three “greats” is outside my normal dating zone. I’ve experienced the rarity of two out of three. More often than not, one out of three. Even then, the great morning is due to my cutting the evening date short and going home alone.

  During the great morning with Davis, we drank coffee at his kitchen table. He wound one of my wilted curls around his fingers and told me again how he liked my hair that way. He offered breakfast, but I told him I had to go home. I didn’t, but breakfast was pushing my luck. I couldn’t expect great breakfast after a three-for-three.

  So I went home and enjoyed a couple of days off before having to work today. Getting ready, I realized I’d be unable to legally enter McGreevy’s without my manager’s keys. I suspected they’d fallen out of my purse at Davis’s. When I texted him to ask, he confirmed they were at his place.

  And now, so am I.

  I wring my hands having raised a fist to knock again when the door swings open. Davis wears a dark gray suit. A bright pink tie slashes down a pale pink shirt. I rein in my excitement, but it’s not easy. He’s strong and sure standing there. Capability and strength waft off him. He’s speaking into the cellphone on his ear, and he tips his head for me to come in.

  I abandon the crisp fall air for the welcoming warmth of his apartment. When I close the door, he takes my hand and starts up the short staircase leading to the living room area. It’s sunny today—and only nine A.M., but Davis is alert, as if he’s been up for several hours.

  Me? I have to open soon, so I’m in a pair of (stylishly) tattered jeans and a frilly white top with a short leather jacket over top.

  Davis’s shiny brown shoes climb one short flight of stairs and past a second set of stairs to his bedroom. Memories shiver down my spine. One night together was fun. Could lightning strike twice?

  Beyond the stairs and behind the kitchen, two doors dot a hallway. The first one on the left is his office. It’s what you’d expect given the rest of the house. Sturdy black desk, black bookcase, spotless wood floor with a plush, patterned gray rug. A green plant by the window happily soaks up the sun’s rays.
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  “Not since yesterday,” Davis says into the phone, his voice firm. A pause, then a stern “Because it’s my job to know.”

  I fidget, knowing I’m interrupting his work. He’s responsible for handling the hard-earned cash of wealthy folks, which sounds big and important. The worst damage I can do on any given night is make a bar patron wait a minute too long for a beverage they don’t need.

  “That sounds like bullshit,” he says into the phone as he paces over to me. His harsh tone is at odds with the gentle fingers twirling a lock of my hair and the tenderness in his gaze as he looks me in the eyes.

  I mouth the words “I can go” and point behind me with one thumb, but Davis shakes his head. He turns, punches a few keys on his computer keyboard with flair, and then says to the caller, “Done. You can thank me later.”

  He ends the call and tosses the cell onto his desk.

  “I could have come later if now’s a bad time.” I twist my fingers nervously as he stalks over and plunges his fingers into my hair.

  “I just made a million dollars,” he rasps, his eyes locked on mine.

  I blink as I digest this news. “What? Are you serious?”

  “Not even a little.” His lips tip in mirth.

  I start to laugh, but my laugh ends in a hum when Davis’s full mouth hits mine. The kiss is like the kisses from two days ago—the ones that led to my stripping naked and having sex with him on the couch. And then on the bed. And then in the morning on the bed…

  It was supposed to be the one time to satisfy our curiosity—or prove a point. Neither of us said so, but it was implied. With Davis’s fingertips cradling the back of my head and his tongue sliding sensually over mine, it’s becoming clear we’re not fizzling out like we’re supposed to.

  His phone rings and he drops his forehead on mine. “Shit.”

  He turns me loose and backs away.

  “Davis,” he answers. “I don’t care how long you’ve been—. Listen. Hang on for two seconds,” he tells the caller gruffly. Back to me, his voice softens. “Your keys are in the bowl by the front door. I’ll see you tonight.” He gives me a wink before going back to his terse conversation, and I hustle out of his office to grant him privacy.

  The bowl by the front door holds the keys I left behind. I palm them and let myself out, wondering the whole way to McGreevy’s why he didn’t just hand them to me without taking me upstairs. Then I remember the potent kiss and I know exactly why.

  Davis likes me.

  Maybe as much as I like him.

  —

  I’ll see you tonight.

  Davis implied he’d come into the bar tonight. He’ll come in. He comes in here almost every one of my shifts. I take a break from stocking beer bottles in the fridge to sneak a look over my shoulder for the umpteenth time.

  Davis’s seat is empty.

  I’ve never watched for him before. Usually I’m aware it’s about time for him to show, but I don’t watch. I’m frowning as I stock more rattling bottles when a baritone, resonant voice startles me.

  “Have you seen Margo?”

  I legit jolt and turn to find Dax hovering over me. Dax owns McGreevy’s, but he’s been absent most of the summer. He has two managers in place and communicates with us via the occasional email. The assistant manager, Margo, and I have only worked together a handful of times.

  “I hardly ever see Margo,” I answer, standing with the empty beer box. She works mostly opposite shifts, considering we’re each other’s relief.

  “Huh.” Dax frowns, a common sight. When he hired me, I noticed he was frowning, and when I’d been working here for a week and a half and he praised me for doing a great job, he was still frowning. He continued frowning when he gave me a raise. He was a frowner; that’s all there was to it. Don’t get me wrong—it doesn’t make him any less attractive.

  To be honest, I didn’t even know he was back from…wherever he was this summer. I’m not sure he’d tell me if I asked. Maybe he leads a double life as a bounty hunter or something. He’s sure as hell built like one.

  That or a Chippendales dancer. Dax’s chest is wide and thick and pressing against the confines of a dark blue T-shirt with a faded motor oil logo on the front. His jeans have holes—but unlike mine, the holes were worn through. Black leather motorcycle boots poke out from the legs. Above the neck, the situation only becomes more favorable. Dax Vaughn is insanely attractive. Spiky, sandy-colored hair. Silvery-blue eyes with long, thick lashes. Contoured lips that purse temptingly…

  Definitely not my type.

  I’ve dated a hot, bulky frowner before, and while I’m certain Dax is nowhere near as big an asshole as Miguel, I’m not interested in this prototype any longer.

  Anyway, I have Davis.

  I mean, I don’t have him. He’s not mine or anything.

  Wow.

  That was an alarming thought.

  “She’ll turn up.” Dax props his hands on his hips and looks around the bar. “Dead tonight.”

  “It’s early. We’ll pick up later.”

  The bell over the door rings and in walks the man occupying my every other thought. My heart lodges in my throat at the sight of him, making me dizzy, given that I can’t breathe around the pulsing lump.

  “Davis! Hi!” I chirp, and then clear my throat when I realize Dax is regarding me with curiosity. I am as much a chirper as I am a giggler.

  “Gracie Lou.” Davis, still in the pink-on-pink shirt-and-tie combo from this morning, slides into his assigned seat and nods at Dax. Dax says nothing, only turns and walks away.

  Charming.

  “He’s back,” Davis states as I deliver his Sam Adams bottle.

  “He is. And he’s asking where Margo is. Like I know?”

  “Dance lessons.”

  “What?”

  Davis swallows a mouthful of beer. I watch his throat work and remember kissing it while he worked us both into a sweaty frenzy. Gosh. That’s a distracting thought.

  “Margo is taking tango lessons with her husband. That’s why she wasn’t here last night.”

  “You came in last night?” I ask thinly. I didn’t know Davis came in when I wasn’t here. A twinge of hurt radiates through me and I give myself a mental slap in the face. So we had sex. So what? I’m not going to let my lizard brain attach the rest of my body to Davis no matter how great our private parts work together. “How fun!”

  Geez. Again with the chirping.

  It’s Davis’s turn to frown.

  “Successful day at the keyboard, I take it.” I not-so-smoothly change the subject.

  “Oh, you mean that million?” His lips flinch. All I can think about is the way his fingers felt twined in my hair this morning. “All in a day’s work.”

  “Menu?”

  “Hit me.”

  The crowd picks up after dinner and soon I’m slinging drinks left and right. Davis has his eyes on the TV as per his usual, but unlike my usual I’m not ignoring him. Quite the opposite. I throw glances his way every chance I get. To watch him take a drink, or blink, or breathe. He’s fascinating and beautiful in a way I’ve never thought about before.

  Currently, however, I’m more fascinated by the perky blonde sidling up to him. She’s flashing her pearly whites and flipping her flaxen hair. I mix a margarita in a metal shaker and keep my eyes on her—and on Davis.

  She rolls her eyes and cocks one hip. Her pursed lips shine with gloss.

  Davis offers a standard smile as she talks, dipping his chin as he casually spins his beer bottle on the bar top.

  I’m feeling…I don’t know what. “Jealous” isn’t the word, but I certainly am not feeling magnanimous toward the cute girl trying to nab the guy I went home with two days ago.

  “ ’Scuse me, sugar.” Candace nudges past me to grab a cherry for the manhattan she just mixed. She came in about twenty minutes ago to bartend. She hands the drink over to the server who ordered it. I find myself directly in her path after I deliver the margarita to a waiting
guest.

  I step to move around her but she blocks me. “How long are you going to shoot lasers at that girl hitting on your man?”

  I force a loud “ha-ha!” in hopes of convincing her she’s reading way too much into the way I’m looking at Davis.

  She doesn’t buy it. I can tell by the half-lidded slow blink.

  “He’s not my man,” I state and feel better the moment it’s out of my mouth.

  “But you two slept together.”

  My mouth gapes and I palm Candace’s arm and drag her off to one side. She comes with me under her own steam. No way could I physically move her if she didn’t want to be moved. Her center of gravity is much lower than mine.

  “Tell me you can’t tell that Davis and I had sex by looking at me.” My plea is a frantic whisper.

  “I can tell,” she says. “But I’m the only one who can tell. Been there before, gorgeous.” She shoots an assessing look at Davis. “He’s here to see you. Don’t let the blondie bother you.”

  Even if Davis slept with the perky blonde in his past, Candace is right. I’m not in competition with any woman who occupies his bed before or after me. I shake “the blondie” off and take care of the immediate problems before me: a server’s well full of drinks that require the dreaded blender (I hate making strawberry daiquiris) and a few guests with food needing sides of this and extra that.

  Once that’s done, I glide by Davis. His company has parted, and his beer is empty.

  “Refill?” I offer.

  “Nah. Cash me out.”

  My stomach sinks. Did the blonde leave her mark? Is Davis leaving with her?

  I convince myself I don’t care, cash him out, and return with the receipt. He offers his credit card and I take it, but he doesn’t release it right away, trapping us in a tiny plastic tug-of-war.

  “Do you work Saturday?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “Three.”

  “Do you work Sunday?”

  “Yes. At noon.”

  “What time are you done?”

  “Do you mean Saturday or Sunday?” I have no idea what he’s getting at.

  He leans on the bar between us and lowers his voice. “Gracie Lou, when can I see you again?”