Chapter 4
Mac
My jaw ticks as I push the beer bottle a few inches further from my hand.
The last thing I want people to start thinking is that I'm becoming the town drunk. Small towns are notorious for spreading rumors and gossip.
I turn to face Riley, shifting on my barstool so I can get a good look at her.
"I'm not an alcoholic," I assure her.
She doesn't bother looking in my direction now that I'm speaking to her, but I know her eyes were on me a few seconds ago.
She spins her drink in her hands, and I have to dip my eyes down and check that left ring finger. It's a habit, something I didn't do once many years ago, and it led to a massive shitstorm I'd rather forget.
For some reason, the scoff that escapes her lips makes me smile.
"I'm having a problem at work," I say, attempting to explain why I'm here tonight, but should I feel the need to make excuses?
I'm grown. I pay my taxes on time. My work ethic is second to none. I hold doors open for everyone.
I'm a good guy.
"It's only my third beer."
She shrugs, and as much as it should upset me, it doesn't.
She doesn't seem to be like most of the other women that come in here. She isn't fucking me with her eyes or trying to saddle right up next to me. She hasn't given me a fake laugh or pressed her palm to my forearm—all things flirty women seem to do.
She's really pretty. Her eyelashes are long, a blanket on her cheeks when she blinks. Her hair is pulled all to one side, giving me the perfect view of her neck.
She looks familiar. I'm sure we were close to the same grade in high school, but I know for a fact she wasn't one of the cheerleaders. I was a jock in school, so I knew most of those girls better than I probably should've.
"I've been having a little business trouble myself," she says, surprising me with her confession.
I was certain she was going to shrug me off and leave.
"Maybe it's something I can help with?" I offer because it just comes naturally to attempt to help others despite needing help myself.
"That's... kind," she says when she darts her eyes in my direction. "But no, thank you."
"Really?" I say, raising an eyebrow and giving her a smirk.
Instead of playing into the interest I'm showing, she curls her lip when she looks at me.
"I told myself I wasn't going to worry about work tonight. I just want a few hours to forget the day. Plus, you just told me that only junior high school boys eat my food."
I chew the inside of my cheek, wondering what she would be like completely riled up. I saw a hint of it a few minutes ago. I have to admit to liking the heat that stained her cheeks when she was repeating what my message to her was like, and from the sounds of it, it was probably verbatim, meaning she had either listened to it more than a few times or she's got a fantastic memory. Either way, she was passionate about it, and I like that in a woman.
I decide to press my luck, wanting to watch the heat rise on that perfect throat of hers once again.
"I saw a post in the Lindell social media group that the school cafeteria was hiring."
The way her eyes narrow in my direction makes me think that maybe I've taken things a little too far, but she grips her drink tighter rather than throwing it in my face. Maybe I haven't lost her completely yet.
"I'm not talking about work with you," she mutters, and it's then that I see the real despondency on her face.
Shit.
I've played this all wrong.
I scoot closer, knowing how easily people around here pick up on conversations and then discuss them when buying stamps at the post office.
"I can think of a few things that would help us both take our minds off of work."
"Like shots?" she asks with a quick scoff.
"Like getting out of here," I offer .
She looks at me like I'm speaking a foreign language for three breaths, and then I see it the second that realization hits her.
"Wh-what?" she asks, and I can see her mind working, and it's not going to go in my favor.
She stands, lifting her drink and draining the last of it.
"My drink is on you," she says before she starts to walk away, but to my surprise, she stops and throws me a look over her shoulder. "The offer only stands for the next couple of minutes, Mac Hammer."
And then she walks right out of the bar.
I don't worry that I drop too much money on the bar top before chasing after her.
I fully expect to see her hauling ass out of the parking lot, getting a good laugh at me, but she's just outside, her face turned up toward the night sky. When she spots me, she walks toward my truck, and I shuffle past her to open the door for her.
She's silent when I climb into the driver's seat. If I hadn't seen her walk into the bar and only have one drink, I'd think she was too drunk to make this choice tonight.
She shifts her weight in her seat as I pull out of the parking lot.
"It smells like you in here," she says conversationally, as if we're heading to the grocery store or if I'm giving her a ride to the bank or something rather than where we're really heading and the plans we have.
"It usually smells like gym socks and sweat," I mutter. "But I had a client meeting earlier today."
"My client threw soup in my face today," she says, her tone not changing.
I snap my head in her direction so fast the truck lurches. I barely straightened it up before hitting a row of mailboxes.
"Excuse me?"
"I signed an NDA. Can't really talk about it."
"A sex contract?"
"What?" Her head snaps in my direction.
"Aren't those for sex?"
"Lots of people use NDAs. It wasn't about sex. It was a catering contract."
"So soup in the face isn't a kink you have?"
Her laughter fills the cab of the truck, and it works to take a little of the edge off, but she doesn't go further to explain exactly what happened. I commend her for not being one of the ones quick to gossip when she has signed a contract promising she wouldn't .
"I haven't been out this way in a really long time," she says when I take a left out of town. "I forgot how pretty the houses are out here."
"My dad built a lot of them," I explain.
"I know," she says, her voice a little lower than before.
Should it feel weird that we're sharing small talk with the plans we have for later tonight?
We're chatting like old friends, and in less than half an hour, I'll have her naked and laid out on my bed.
Unlike other girls I take home, who would be crawling all over me and trying to reach for my crotch and ignoring their seatbelts, Riley is looking at the houses as we pass by.
Her hands twist and turn in her lap when we pull up my driveway, and although she may be nervous, I also know she's a grown woman. From how she quickly spoke up in the bar, I have no doubt she'd do it again in a second if she changed her mind.
"Ready?" I ask, waiting for her to dip her head before climbing out.
She waits for me to open her door, and I have to smile about it. She was raised in Lindell just like I was, and there's just something about her expectations of me that makes this seem better somehow.
She places her hand in mine when I offer it, but the second her feet hit the ground, she pulls it free.
"Riley," I say when she starts to walk toward my front porch.
She raises an eyebrow when she turns back to look at me, and I hate the swallow that works its way down her throat as if she's expecting something bad from me.
Instead of words, I reach out and pull her hand, pressing her against the side of my truck. When she tries to look away, I'm forced to curl a finger under her chin until her pretty blue eyes are looking up at me.
When her tongue sneaks out to wet her lips, I don't waste another breath. I lower my lips to hers, instantly requesting entry to her mouth with the slide of my tongue on her lower lip.
She grants it with a whimper, and I swallow that sound and the several she makes after, tasting the whiskey on her tongue.
I want to pull away and ask her why she wasn't crawling in my lap, but this actually feels better. I like the sounds she’s making. I grow hard, thickening in my jeans, when her fingers tangle and pull at my shirt as if we're not close enough to each other.
My fingers tangle in her long, blonde hair as I situate her mouth, angling exactly how I want it. Despite the fire in her words back at the bar, she doesn't fight me. She lets it happen and lets me control her positioning. I'm seconds away from taking her right here, and if I don't get this woman inside, then I know it'll be a very real possibility.