Home > Hit the Spot (Dirty Deeds #2)(2)

Hit the Spot (Dirty Deeds #2)(2)
Author: J. Daniels

That wasn’t the level Tall, Blond, and Stupidly Gorgeous wanted to be on with me. No, sir. Absolutely not.

“Who is that?” I asked Shay, watching her customer from the two-top stand and cross the room to greet Sexy Blink, though I couldn’t make out the words from this distance and over the 311 song playing overhead.

“Jamie McCade,” Shay answered. “He’s a pretty BFD around here.”

“A what?” I asked.

“Big fucking deal.” Shay turned her head, met my eyes, and shrugged. “Or so they say. I’m not a huge surfing fan. Tried it once and ended up swallowing my weight in ocean water. He’s the best, though. Has been for years. Ask any local.”

I studied Jamie’s hair and decided it looked more wave-tussled than hand-raked messy.

A surfer … Yeah, that fit. That absolutely fit this guy.

Lowering my gaze, I saw he was back to staring at me and back to smiling. I cleared my throat, cut my eyes away, and looked down at my doodle.

Wes. I had a boyfriend. I had a boyfriend who made me happy. I was simply noticing another man’s good looks. That’s all. I’d have to be blind not to notice.

So why did I feel guilty noticing in the first place?

“I’m gonna go get him seated. Be back.”

“’Kay,” I muttered, keeping my head down and my hand busy as I darkened Wes’s name even further, the blue ink saturating the paper so much that now it appeared nearly black.

Black, like my noticing, treacherous heart.

Unbelievable.

“You’re up, T.”

I snapped my head up and gaped at Shay, not because of the new nickname she’d just thrown on me—I liked it and hoped it would stick—but because of the two words she’d just used preceding my new, cute nickname.

“Huh?”

Shay giggled, then reached out and took the pen out of my hand while her other slid the napkin away from me.

“He requested your section. Lucky girl. You’re in for a treat. He tips like he invented money or something.”

Shay began doodling on my napkin.

I looked across the room again and saw that Jamie was indeed sitting in my section, arm draped over the back of the booth, smiling and waiting to be served.

Well, this was just terrific. Now I had no choice but to look at him.

Whatever.

I had a job to do. I couldn’t just stand around and doodle.

“Right.” Straightening up and snapping into professional mode, I smoothed my apron, pulled out my ticket book, and leaning across the counter, snatched my pen away from Shay.

She smirked. “It’s cool. I’m gonna make sure Stitch didn’t hack off a finger.”

Shay moved around the bar to get to the kitchen window, hopped up on the edge of the counter, and sat there, swinging her feet and waiting for Stitch.

I took a deep breath and headed across the room, wetting my cherry-painted lips and stretching them into a friendly smile when I reached my destination.

He liked to tip? Awesome. I liked getting tips. Time to put on the charm.

“Good afternoon. My name is—”

“Fuck me, babe,” Jamie muttered through a thick, sex-soaked voice, cutting me off as his eyes skimmed up and down the length of me. “You make that ugly-ass uniform look fuckin’ good. No shit.”

My head jerked back. “Excuse me?” I asked, losing my smile. I glanced down at my uniform, which consisted of a white polo top, khaki pants, and a black apron tied around my waist. “These uniforms aren’t ugly,” I argued, lifting my head. “They’re cute and super comfy. Honestly, I’ve worn worse.”

“Legs, trust me, they’re nothin’ to look at,” he argued back, tipping his head. “But on you, yeah, different story. I’ll look all fuckin’ day.”

I blinked. “Legs? Did you just call me Legs?”

What in the … hell? Who calls someone that?

Half of Jamie’s mouth lifted, revealing one killer dimple.

“Fuck yeah, I did,” he answered, dropping his eyes to my limbs and lingering there. “Seen a lot of good ones. Had a lot of good ones wrapped around me, but yours? Babe, seriously.” He looked to me again. “Yours take the fuckin’ cake. I’d give my left nut for a feel. Straight up.”

I stared at him.

I was never a woman of few words. Never. Not even when I needed to be. In situations that didn’t warrant talking, I was still a talker. I got shushed at movie theaters because I felt the need to comment or ask questions regarding the plot line. I was that girl. Words never failed me.

Yet here I was, stripped of my vocabulary for the first time in my twenty-four years of life, all because a man wanted to chop off his left testicle to cop a feel.

Unbelievable.

Jamie laughed, low and rumbly in his throat, and hearing that, I broke out of my speechless haze.

“Do you offer up appendages to all the women you meet?” I asked.

“Why? Curious if anyone’s ever taken me up on it?” He gestured at his lap. “Go ahead and check. I’m down for a strip search if you wanna give it, Legs. Just know …” He bent his elbow on the table, leaned forward to get closer, held my eyes, and with a lowered voice, promised, “You touch me, and I am definitely putting my hands all over you.”

Breath caught in my throat as I quickly sucked in air.

I felt my cheeks warm, knew Jamie could see my reaction to what he’d just said, and further knew I needed to get far away from the topic of him putting his hands anywhere near my personal space.

   
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