I laugh silently to myself and try to maintain a serious expression. “Answer the question, Amber. A guy can only hold out for so long under pressure such as this. Is that what you want? You want me to kiss you?”
“No. That’s not what I want.” She sighs, nervously flicking her eyes to my lips. Christ, the girl really has no clue how badly she needs to sharpen her lying skills. “Just give me my purse so I can call a tow.”
I bring my hand to my chin and rub it. The move is an attempt to appear to look like I’m seriously pondering her suggestion. It lasts less than a second. “Yeah. I’m not feeling it, Moretti.”
She sighs again.
I turn toward the diner doors, crooking my finger over my shoulder. “Come on. I’ll give it back after you let me feed you.”
“I’m not hungry,” she says as she follows closely behind me.
I know this because I hear her irritated footsteps pouncing up the stairs. I also hear her let out a string of curses, a huff, and another sigh as I open the door. Trying to finally act like the gentleman my mother raised, I sweep a hand across the threshold, gesturing for her to go in. I’m beginning to think the only thing she loves doing while around me is rolling her eyes, since she does it again as she walks past. It’s all good, though. It’s her eyes—not her face, ass, or tits—that nearly mutilated my heart the first time she looked at me.
Yeah. My head was pretty much fucked sideways from that point on.
“Two?” the cheery blonde hostess asks with a confused smile. She sat me and Layla earlier, and by the looks of it, she clearly remembers me.
“Unfortunately,” Amber pipes up. “Asshole here’s holding me hostage.”
Sweet Jesus. Every time I’m around this girl, I see why Brock’s dead set on officially making her his. Though she’s completely oblivious to it, and a little off her rocker, there’s nothing about her that isn’t truly phenomenal. She’s a spitfire. My match in every way possible.
The hostess, now appearing further confused and somewhat concerned, leads us toward a booth in the back corner. After Blondie drops two menus on the table and announces that our waitress will be with us shortly, Amber slides in against the wall and rests her legs on the cushioned seat. Frustration’s leaking from her pores. I can almost hear her mentally cursing me out.
“You’re not gonna talk to me?” I make sure I sound offended.
Silence.
“That really hurts, Amber,” I add, this time including my best frown.
More silence.
I chuckle, loving how fucking cute she is when she’s pissed. “I bet by the time I drop you off, not only will I have struck up some kind of conversation with you, but I’ll get you to tell me what color panties you’re wearing.”
She scoffs.
At least I got her to make some kind of noise.
I shrug. “Whatever. You’ll see. I’m good at shit like this.”
She ignores my statement.
Deciding to prove my point, I pull a dollar from my pocket, feed it into the minijukebox hanging from the wall, and hit F5 for a little Florida Georgia Line. Though I also dig it, chicks can’t help but melt when they hear this song.
After a few moments . . .
“You listen to them?” Amber asks, tapping her finger against the table to the beat.
“You talked. I win,” I inform her with my eyes locked on hers from over the menu, well aware that I sound like a child. “Now tell me, are they red or pink? Lace or satin?” She goes to speak, but I cut her off. “Wait, let me guess. I’m thinking black lace? Mm. Fuck yeah, black lace.” I close my eyes, a vivid, filthy picture involving spiked heels, body paint, and a video cam flashing in my mind. “Brock, such a lucky bastard. I hope he’s taking care of all of that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that all you do, Ryder? Think about sex?”
“As many times in a day as you roll your eyes, Amber,” I deadpan, lifting a dark brow. I can tell she’s fighting the urge to roll those pretty eyes.
She shakes her head. “Just so you know, when we do get around to it—and we will—I’m sure Brock will know what to do with all of this.” She sweeps a vogue-style hand across her body.
I stiffen—or maybe my dick does. I can’t be too sure at this point. Considering I already knew Brock hasn’t sampled everything she has to offer, it’s pretty safe to say she’s jarred my head a little something more than I’m used to.
“Also,” she continues, lifting her own brow, “good luck finding out what color panties I’m wearing.”
I frown. This time it’s an honest-to-God frown.
“Now can you answer my original question?” she asks.
Blank. It’s me shaking my head this time. “What was the original question?”
“Florida Georgia Line,” she reminds me. “You like them? I never pictured a guy like you listening to their music.”
I clear my throat, attempting to rid my mind of several filthy thoughts. “Yeah, I like them. ‘Cruise’ is one of my favorite songs.”
“It’s one of my favorites too.” She shrugs. “Again, I just never pictured you listening to them.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I drop my eyes back down to the menu.
“Ryder,” she says softly after a moment.
I jerk my head up for two reasons. One: in the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve never heard Amber say anything softly, let alone my name. Two: the sound of this new voice makes me feel strangely relaxed, comforted. Jesus. In a split second, she’s managed to twist me up.