I went home five minutes later.
“Rough day at work?” she asked with a smile. That was an inside joke because my rough days consisted of screaming kids while hers ended up in fistfights between horny customers and the bouncers.
I never brought up Wes with anyone, so I shrugged. “Just felt like cutting loose for a change.”
Naya had a way of staring me down to the very fraction of a lie I just told, and the moment my eyes darted away, a smug look of satisfaction crossed her face.
“Everyone is entitled to a night out,” I continued, sprinkling a little sugar in my cup before taking a sip.
“Glad to hear you’re alive and kicking. That means you’ll be coming to my party on Tuesday.”
“Don’t people have to work?”
“Not the people I hang out with, darling. You know that. Tuesdays are my Saturday, and I know for a fact you don’t work every other Wednesday. There’s going to be a great crowd—lots of fat wallets and alcohol.”
“It’s not the size of a man’s wallet that counts, Naya.”
Her ruby lips turned up in a carnivorous smile. “Hon, that’s the only bulge in the pants that really counts in the long run.”
We both laughed, although deep down I had a feeling she wasn’t joking. As sexual as Naya was, she didn’t seem to care about a guy fulfilling her physical needs. She wanted stability—a man who could offer her a better way of life. She equated security with money. Some women just liked being taken care of; I was not one of those women.
“I’ll come,” I agreed. “But no dancing. And don’t do your thing.”
“What thing?” She laid down a queen and the tip of the card made a snapping sound against the bar.
“You know to which thing I refer.” I took another slow sip of my beverage. “The match game. Don’t do it. If my destiny is at the party and I can’t find him myself, then clearly I should go home without a parting gift. It’s embarrassing.”
She lifted two fingers. “Promise.” Naya glanced at her watch. “Ooo, I’ve got to run. Will you feed Misha? I’m working a double shift tonight.”
I groaned and padded into the living room. “I don’t know why dry food is such a big no-no. It’s a cat, Naya.”
She swung the door open and glanced over her shoulder. “You’re the only person I’ve ever known who didn’t like my *.”
I snorted and didn’t bother to respond. I had a love-hate relationship with her cat. I loved to hate it.
“The wet food is by the fridge—”
“I know. Go on, I’ll take care of little Misha.”
Naya blew a kiss and slammed the door.
“Lock it!” She yelled from the outside.
I turned the bolt, set my coffee on an end table, and collapsed on the sofa. All I could think about was Austin. Did I really see him at the cemetery? Maybe I dreamed it. I never could hold my liquor and it didn’t take much to get me drunk, not to mention I was one of those people who blacked out if I drank too much. Not passed out, but conscious and sometimes belting out old rock songs. At least, that’s what Naya told me, as did a girl I used to party with when I was younger. That’s why I avoided binge drinking.
No one needed to hear my rendition of “Feel Like Makin’ Love.”
Still, the conversation had seemed so real.
I was angry and kept hitting the stupid rewind button in my brain, causing me to replay the scene at Dairy Queen. Except in episode two, I got up and cussed him out. By episode three, I told my mom to take Maizy outside and I tore him a new one for walking out of our lives. By four, I managed to get information on where he’d been all this time before slapping him. Somewhere around episode twelve, I started making out with him, and by eighteen, we were having sex all over the hood of his Dodge Challenger.
That’s when I got up and took another shower.
Chapter 4
The next day at work, we were slammed with orders. I don’t know if there were a lot of cheating husbands or sick grandmas or what, but Sweet Treats was hopping. Aside from selling candy, we customized gift items. You could choose from a number of candy combinations and have them packaged for different occasions in the container or basket of your choice. It wasn’t just a store for kids—we also sold expensive chocolates and gourmet popcorn. I’d sampled them to death over the years and officially murdered my love for sugar.
If a guy ever gave me a box of candy (not that one ever would, all Beckett ever gave me was a box of Victoria’s Secret lingerie), that would be the equivalent of giving me a box of anchovies. It’s not that I hated candy, but the magic was gone. A man should be more original than a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates. Flowers die and sugar sticks to your hips like a permanent record to a criminal.
However, all superheroes have a kryptonite. I had one weakness.