Having a job never really crossed my mind when I was with Grams because my job back then was taking care of her. Now that I don’t have her to watch over, I’m having a hard time figuring out what I want to do for a living.
Answering Carter’s question, I say, “I do want a job. I’m not quite sure what it’s going to be though. I have some money from my dad to live on right now while I figure it out.”
“Let’s figure it out.” Leaning forward, his arms propped on the table, he asks, “What interests you?”
“Oh gosh, I love crafts, and making people smile, and watching musicals.”
“Okay,” Carter drags out. “Not quite what I was looking for. What about baking? You could always do something along the lines of baking.”
“Oh, that would be a dream. Baking for a living, what a wonderful job that would be.”
“One Upslope and a Breaking Bad for the lady,” the waiter says, handing us our drinks.
I stare down at the colorful concoction with an orange peel floating inside and get nervous. With one sip will I feel drunk? How does this really work?
“Are you ready?”
“I think so. My first drink.” I pull my phone out of my purse and hand it to Carter. “Will you take a picture of me with my first drink?”
“Why am I not surprised by this request?” he asks sarcastically.
I hold my drink up with both hands and smile brightly. Carter stares at me for a few heartbeats before holding the phone up and taking a picture. His expression is so intense.
Shaking his head slightly, as if he’s trying to forget something, he holds his beer up to me and says, “Cheers, Snowflake. Here’s to your first drink.”
“Cheers.”
We clink glasses and with a deep breath, I take my first sip. I let the liquid ride down my throat and into my belly while I wait. When I feel like it’s settled, I open my eyes, expecting to feel completely different, but I experience nothing.
“Well, that’s a letdown.”
“What is?” Carter asks, his grip on his beer strong. Why do I find that attractive, the way his hand grips a pint glass?
“I thought after my first sip, something explosive would happen.”
Once again, his eyebrow lifts. “What, did you think when you took a sip of alcohol you were going to morph into something else, like when Peter Parker is bitten by a spider and instantly he’s Spiderman?”
“No.”
“Did you think a mariachi band was going to appear and start playing a song for you?”
“No.” I giggle, kind of wishing that did happen.
“Then what were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “A little lightning bolt would have been cool. Or maybe a dancing leprechaun could have appeared and given me a high five.”
“Ah, yeah, leprechauns are on strike right now. Not happy with union wages,” he jokes.
“Well, that explains everything.”
For the rest of the evening, we talk about what baked goods I excel at making, his favorite things to cook, and other drinks I should try since I apparently like the fruity ones. I’ve established that only after one drink. When it’s time to pay the check, Carter slips his card in the folder before I can even look at the receipt. Apparently it is his treat since it is my first night of drinking.
Before we leave the table, I down two glasses of water, wanting to avoid any kind of hangover. Carter assures me it will take consuming many more drinks before I have to worry about getting a hangover, but I take a few more sips of water just in case.
The cold night air hits us when we exit the restaurant, the dark, expansive sky lit up by the city lights.
“Where’s your car?”
“Oh, I don’t have one. I took a cab over here. I need to call the company to come get me.”
I start to dial the phone number to the cab company I used to get here when Carter places his hand over my phone, his fingers grazing my skin.
“You’re not calling a cab. I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I don’t mind taking a cab.”
“You’re not taking a cab,” Carter says more sternly.
Before I object, he laces his fingers with mine and starts walking me down the street.
My heart freezes in my chest. My brain short-circuits. Carter is holding my hand. Carter—one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen—is holding my hand and walking me down the street.
My inner Daisy is squealing in delight, reveling in the moment, while the outer Daisy is trying to act as cool as possible.
But . . . eep, I’m holding a boy’s hand.
CARTER
Pretty sure I’ve lost it completely.
Warning bells are going off in my head, telling me to drop her hand, step away, and run for the hills, but instead of pulling away, my hand stays firmly in place, making sure Daisy sticks close by.
I would be lying if I didn’t say that was the most enjoyable meal I’ve ever shared with anyone. It’s not just because Daisy’s light and sunny personality is contagious, but because I was able to talk to someone about my passion, and not only was she more than happy to listen, she was actually interested. In my passion. We bounced ideas back and forth about different flavor combinations and what dessert would match what entrée. It was . . . fun.
Yeah, I fucking said it. It was fun.
Fun was the last thing I thought I would have tonight after Daisy walked into the restaurant looking like a blonde bombshell. I’ve always thought Daisy was pretty, the girl next door, and it’s impossible not to see her innate beauty. But with the new clothes that frame her physique perfectly, I wanted to take her back to her place, retrieve one of her baggy turtlenecks and a pair of overalls and drape them over her.
She was more than gorgeous. She looked sexy.
And I wasn’t about to let sexy, na?ve Daisy take a cab back home at night. Nope, not going to happen.
“You really don’t have to do this,” she says from behind me, trailing my every step.
“It’s no biggie.” I reach my motorcycle and I hear Daisy gasp from behind me. “Something wrong?”
Her eyes widen as she observes my ride. “You’re going to take me home on that?”
Swinging my helmet forward and into her view, I nod. “Do you have a problem with it?”
She shakes her head rapidly as if she doesn’t want to insult me and then stills. Leaning forward, she whispers, “Aren’t motorcycles dangerous?”
Matching her lean, taking in her flowery scent, I whisper back, “I’m more dangerous than this motorcycle, and you don’t seem to have a problem being around me. Now, hop on.”
“B-but, I don’t have a helmet,” she stutters.
I move in close, so close that she has to tilt her head back to look at me. Because I have to touch her—because against my will I feel drawn to her—I reach up and gently push her silky blonde hair behind her ear, my fingers grazing her cheeks.
Eyes widen, mouth parts, and her cheeks flush. Shit, she’s so gorgeous.
“You’re wearing mine,” I say in a husky tone, my voice almost betraying the way Daisy affects me.
“What are you going to wear?”
I snap the chin-strap in place and flip the visor down so I see my reflection in my helmet. “Nothing.”