My turn to score a point. “You live in Orange County.”
“Ooh, observant. I like that in a man. So, you still offering?”
“Sure. Besides, even if you had your car here, I wouldn’t let you drive.”
She shoots me a cocky smile. “I’m totally sober.”
“Maybe enough to talk. Not enough to get behind the wheel,” I say.
I open the passenger-side door and let her into my four-year-old Accord, making a mental note to thank Kristen for nagging until I vacuumed and washed the car last week. First impressions matter, and I don’t want to give Elizabeth any reason to think less of me.
Once we’re both in, she props her elbow on the bottom of the window and rests the side of her head against the back of her fingers. Her gaze runs over my face, then her expression firms as though she’s come to a decision. “So…where do you live?”
My blood thickens at her tone—an exciting mixture of coy and flirty. Kristen’s sleeping over with her best friend tonight. Thank God. It’s like the stars have aligned perfectly.
Elizabeth reaches over and runs her fingers along my thigh. Her scent—vanilla and lavender—tickles my nose. An electric charge sizzles at the base of my spine, and heated blood pumps hard through my veins. “You going to start the car or what?” She smiles, her cheeks flushed.
Logic and good intentions grow fuzzy. I don’t hook up with women I meet at the bar. I want to set a good example for Kristen so she knows to look for a guy who’ll take her seriously and treat her well. And I’m usually just too busy with life—college courses, taking care of my sister and working two jobs.
But with Elizabeth, none of that matters. The only thing is her being with me…and the undercurrent of instinctive knowledge that if I end this now, she’s going to slip away, never to be seen again.
My mouth dry, I speed toward my place, half an hour from the bar. I don’t run any red lights, but it’s pretty close a couple of times.
She laughs softly. “Love it that you’re impatient.”
“Do you?”
“You want me.”
“What man wouldn’t?”
She grows wistful. “Not everyone wants me.”
“You’ve been with the wrong men.”
She opens her mouth, then instead of saying anything, drags her teeth along her lower lip.
I reach the duplex in record time. And thank God my sister and I are both on the tidy side, because bringing a girl to a pigsty?
Just no.
Elizabeth takes a quick glance at the place. It’s all inexpensive functionality topped with neat. Most of furniture came secondhand or from IKEA. The large high-definition TV is a prize from last year’s Black Friday sale, where I beat a rabid crowd to the only sub-five-hundred-dollar unit in the store. A few photos of my family are lined up on the mantel of a small gas fireplace, which had to have been put in just so the landlord could claim the unit had a fireplace.
“Got anything to drink?” she asks.
“What are you in the mood for?”
“What do you have? Other than water, tea or coffee.”
“Vodka good?”
She nods. I pour two glasses of Stoli—I’m off the clock now—and take them to the couch. We sit and clink before taking a sip.
“Do you really go by Elizabeth with everyone?” I ask, enjoying the smooth taste of the vodka. “No nickname?”
“Yeah. Everyone calls me that, except this one cousin who calls me Eliza. I think he felt rebellious when he was younger, you know? And it stuck. With him, anyway.”
She’s probably wrong about her cousin. Elizabeth is too formal a name for this woman. She’s too vivacious, too open and too sexy. She needs a shorter, snappier name.