Arm Candy Page 22
“Mine’s the Jeep,” I tell him with the tilt of my chin toward the parking lot. “I can get up there.”
“I doubt that.” He smiles but there’s no humor there.
“Guess we’ll find out.” I hand-picked the cabin I booked because of the location. Cabin 7 sits deep in the woods, well off the main road, and the overlook beyond the balcony is breathtaking. I don’t use that word ever, so you know it’s true.
“Sorry.” The bartender shakes his head. “Company policy. If you go sliding off the mountain, we’ll be liable. I’m not only the manager over this fine drinking establishment, but I’m also the owner of Grand Lark.”
Well. Shit.
“If it opens up…” I surrender the yellow key fob from my pocket, laying it on the bar.
“We’ll move you immediately.” He looks outside when a clash of thunder follows lightning so close, Becca lets out a startled yip. That yip is followed by her hand to her chest and a burst of laughter that loosens the tightness in my chest.
“Thanks.” I take the red key fob and cram it in my pocket while he slides a map across the bar and points out Cabin 13. It’s not as high up the mountain, and has a few cabins close by. I’m not happy about the development, which he must’ve discerned.
“I know it’s not ideal,” he tells me. “But we should be able to open up the road in the next day, maybe two.”
I dip my chin in a nod. It’ll have to do. I’m not willing to start my six-hour-plus drive back to Ohio, or look for another cabin rental this late at night. Getting this one was a bitch considering the recent Gatlinburg forest fires. I was lucky to find an opening anywhere in Tennessee.
He asks if he can get me anything else before he clocks off for the night. I say no, and he tells me Dominic can get me anything else I need. I’m assuming Dominic is the besotted, Italian-looking guy smiling down at Becca.
He likes her. Probably hasn’t dated her yet, because that look in his eyes is more pining than reminiscent.
She doesn’t seem to recognize that he’s suffering any such plight, given the way she squeezes his biceps and walks away from him. I watch the way he inspects his arm after she goes, pulling his shoulders back like she just made his day.
He’s young. Probably closer to her age than I am, not that thirty-three is old, but she’s maybe mid-twenties.
She rounds the bar and I glance up from my phone again to watch her. At first blush, she’s what you might call “cute.” Tall, her chin-length light blond hair cut at choppy angles. But if you watch her for longer than five seconds, the “cute” morphs into more.
Becca moves with grace, like a dancer or an athlete. She’s lithe, not skinny, and it only takes one glance down those long legs to notice the muscles in her calves even beneath her jeans.
She’s a beauty.
Though I’d allow the “cute” nickname to emerge the moment she opens her mouth. She has a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. She’s funny, I can tell already. Even in the face of being fired by her weak-chinned boss, she hasn’t abandoned the premises yet.
Which means she also has balls.
Figuratively speaking, I like a woman with balls.
I don’t like them meek. I don’t like when they play dumb. And thanks to my last relationship, I really don’t like when they treat me like I’m a big, dumb former jock who doesn’t understand how relationships work.
I understand, all right.
It’s an understanding that keeps me from wanting to enter another one. They’re good and fine for a great many people, but I’m not one of them.
For me, the only relationship I’m interested in is the one I have with my bartenders and other staff, and maybe, on occasion if the mood is right, the one I have with a woman on a temporary, no-strings basis.
A flash of blond catches my eye. I turn my head to find Becca, glossed lips hitched, approaching me with a confident, easy walk.
I straighten, ignoring the text that just buzzed my phone.
Looks like the mood could be right for a little no-strings fun tonight.
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