“Is this Robert DeNiro’s restaurant?” he asked.
“No. Different spelling. Two Rs.” I pointed to the logo on the sign.
“I’ll have to get a photo and tell him about this place. Or maybe not. His lawyers don’t have a sense of humor.”
“You know Robert DeNiro?”
“Why don’t you lock up that bookstore and come join me for a carb-heavy meal that my personal trainer will beat my ass for eating?”
“They have some tasty salads.”
“Salads? Fuck salads!” He held the phone away from himself and stare confusedly at it. Then he brought it back to his face, yelling, “Who is this? I want the bad girl. The one who’s a bad influence on me.”
Giggling, I said, “Give me two minutes to lock up.”
“Two minutes. I’m starting the timer. If you go over, there will be Penalty Minutes.”
CHAPTER 11
“What?”
“Penalty Minutes. Tick, tick. Time’s running.”
“Eep!” I unwound myself from the phone cord, comically tripping repeatedly, then hung up the phone and raced around in a panic. Penalty Minutes! I didn’t want to rack up Penalty Minutes, whatever they were.
My finger was shaking as I punched in the alarm code, 1225. Gordon Junior chose that number because it’s the date of the only day we’re closed.
I ran out the front door, then back in for my purse, then back out again, my heart pounding in a panic as the countdown on the alarm beeped down.
By the time I got outside the store, I was moist with sweat and breathing heavily. With a wicked grin on my face, I noted that if things went well, it wouldn’t be the last workout that evening.
~
Penalty Minutes were most certainly accruing, and when I ran across the street to join Dalton, my face must have been bright red judging by the way it felt.
“Darling,” he said in a English accent, then took my hand in his and kissed my knuckles while bowing.
“Sorry,” I said breathlessly, pointing behind me like a fool. “Closing. Forgot stuff.”
“You must be terribly famished,” he said, still in the English accent. “You’re making no sense at all. Come, now, let’s get you off those running shoes. You girls and your ridiculous fashionable footwear. Why aren’t you in stilettos? You’ll twist a heel in those, walking with your feet in a normal human foot shape.”
Why was I suddenly in the middle of an improv skit? Actors, sheesh.
I played along, saying, “Cheerio, bangers and mash.”
“Darling, are you making fun of my accent? This whole time I’ve known you, I’ve put up a charade, speaking with an intolerable American accent, but I can stand it no longer! I must be me!”
He was really laying it on thick, and weirding me out more than a little, to be honest. Even his face had taken on a decidedly British look. How many faces did the guy wear?
A thirtyish couple walking out of the restaurant stopped to stare, and after a moment, the woman said, “You’re him, aren’t you?” To her husband, she said, “Drake. The vampire. I heard he was shooting a movie here in Beaverdale.”
Dalton leaped toward the woman, also yanking me with him. He pulled me in front of him, making a horrible snarling sound and biting me on the neck. Not nibbling, but full-on biting.
“Ooh, Bitey,” I said.
The woman stared with a mix of horror and adulation on her face. The husband got out his phone and asked if he could take a picture.
Dalton said yes, and what did I do? I stood there, waiting for the guy to take our photo. Because surely this stranger wanted a picture of me, right?
Nope. He wanted a photo of Dalton with his wife, without me. That was an awkward moment, as he winced and I shuffled out of the way. That moment was followed by another awkward one, where they actually asked me to take a photo of the three of them.
The man said to Dalton, “Would you mind biting my wife for one of these?”
Dalton waggled his eyebrows at the woman and said, “I’m afraid if I do, she’ll never be the same.”
He had his smolder turned up to eleven, and I’d by lying if I said I wasn’t outrageously turned on.
The woman nearly collapsed in a heap of giggles and lust. Then he lunged at her neck anyway. She screamed. I managed to take the photo, by some miracle, because what I really wanted to do was jam the thing in her stupid mouth. Sideways. What can I say… I was an only child most of my life, and I don’t like to share my toys.
After the couple finally walked away and left us alone, I said, “You seem to enjoy interacting with your fans.”
He gave me a saucy look. “Jealous? Don’t be. I only have eyes for one fan, and she only joined my fan club recently, but I’m very glad to have her. Her username is Peachy22, I believe?”
I jumped back like mating dragonflies were flying out of his mouth. “You know I joined your fan club? Holy f**kchops. I’ll just die now, excuse me.”
“At least we know where your loyalties lie, and you’re not Team Connor.”
“Never. He’s the worst.”
Dalton stepped closer and seized me in his arms. “Kiss me,” he said.
People were still walking around, going in and out of the theater just up the block. We were out in the open, and I felt self-conscious, so I gave him a timid peck on the lips.
“No. Kiss me like I’m dangerous,” he said. “Kiss me like I’m bad for you.”
His dark hair flopped around in a breeze, ruffling on his forehead above his dreamy, too-cute, green eyes.
Oh, he was dangerous. And bad for me.
I stood up on tiptoes and gave him a real kiss, my pulse racing and my whole body tingling from the sensation of his lips on mine. The smell of his skin in my nostrils. The feel of his hot hands on the small of my back. The sun setting and glinting off the windows and vehicles around us. His hands reaching down to cup my bu**ocks and press me against his body, the full length of both of us connecting.
Heat rushed through me like a shot of tequila followed by another shot of tequila. As we locked lips and tongues, the extremely sensitive front of me detected movement in Dalton’s crotch region.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff.
I crushed my h*ps against his, teasing his hardness with my softness.
He pulled away, practically gasping for air. “Who’s bad for whom?” he said. “I think you’re the naughty one.”
“I’m the girl your parents warned you about.”