Be My Baby & C*me Like A Dirty Girl (Bad Men Possessing Good Girls #4)

1. Stella

Stella

“H e’s back.” Karma, a fellow waitress at the Blue Heights Diner we’ve both worked in for a couple of years now, nods to the handsome drink of danger and temptation as he walks in.

The relaxed Henley shirt, dark-washed boot-cut jeans, and biker boots only emphasize the man’s pure, raw manliness, making all my girly parts perk up and crave him like chocolate on my monthly.

“Don’t you dare, Karma,” I hiss as she waves him and the casually dressed man he’s with to a booth near my section.

My friend is a pain in the ass some days, but she knows I can’t serve that guy.

Not because of anything he’s done, but rather my attraction to him and the fact that the first time he came in, and I was his server, I spilled his coffee, breakfast, and a double-chocolate milkshake all in his lap.

I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.

He didn’t complain, though. Just lifted the corner of his mouth in that sexy little way hot men do and gave me a hundred-dollar tip.

Who even does that? He’s asked for me a couple of times since then but has never pushed it after being told I was unavailable, even though I obviously was.

No , instead, he subtly watches my every move.

The girls here point it out all too often, and it’s just to the point now where I can’t serve anyone once he shows up.

Thank god, he’s predictable, showing up the same three days a week at the exact time, so I’m able to ensure I’m doing all the chores around the diner as the other girls take over my tables.

Yeah, I get fewer tips by doing it; it annoys the heck out of our cook, Chet, and I feel like a fool, but unless I want to find another job with such flexible hours, I’m stuck.

The owner, Martha, joins us and watches as he takes a look around, stopping when he spots me.

I busy myself with wiping down counters and notice his chuckle before returning his attention to his friend.

Lordy, he’s got a deadly smile, and I bet his laugh is low and deep, something that would have any girl swoon.

“You should serve them.” Martha nudges me with her hip.

A snort escapes. “Not a chance.”

“Honey, if you let handsome men scare you, you’re going to have a very lonely existence.” She’s not wrong.

“Come on, Stel, he’s obvs into you too.” Karma twirls a lock of her hair around her finger, being flirty as she starts walking backwards towards their table.

“I know what you’re doing.” My eyes narrow on her. “It won’t work.” Dammit. Yes, it will. “Fine!” I hiss and stomp a foot. “I’ll bring them coffee, and that’s it.” Grabbing the half-empty pot of coffee I made only ten minutes ago, I take a few calming breaths as I pass Karma.

“You totes got this, girlfriend.” She gives an exaggerated wink while I converse in my head, reminding myself to breathe and speak clearly.

Arriving at their table, both men glance up at me. My guy sits back, relaxed, arms spread across the bench seat, a smirk firmly in place on his plump, kissable lips. His eyes are dangerous, though, like a chocolate fountain that you know is bad for you, but you want it anyway.

His friend tries not to laugh as my mouth opens to greet them, but nothing comes out. I can feel my cheeks turning the most god-awful shade of red.

Forcing my eyes forward, I stare out the window into the parking lot, where more cars pull in, and I realize I need to get my ass moving before we’re slammed.

“Morning, gentlemen, can I offer you a coffee?” Blinking rapidly, I drop my eyes and meet their stares while holding up the pot in my hand.

The new guy offers his cup while my guy releases a throaty chuckle as he reaches out, setting his friend's cup in front of me on the table while sliding his forward as well.

“We’d love some, sugar.” God , his rumbly tone makes me swell with desire. Slowly, I pour their drinks and manage not to spill a drop. “Got any cream?” he asks. My eyes shoot to his face to find his eyes eating me up in ways no man ever has. Ordinarily, men aren’t too interested in me.

I have wide hips, thick thighs, my breasts are more than a handful, and there’s a little too much chub in my belly. But the way he looks at me, I feel sexy for the first time in my life, and I have no idea what the hell to do with it.

“Sure, I’ll be right back.” Forcing myself to go slow instead of running away, as my body screams to do, is difficult. Especially when I catch Karma pointing behind me, practically screaming for me to turn around.

When I do, it’s to see him licking his lips and staring at my ass.

“OMG.” The breath whooshes from me as I place the pot back on the warmer and grab a bowl of individual creamers from the mini fridge behind the counter.

“I didn’t spill,” I whisper, which isn’t as quiet as I’d like, but nobody calls me on it while hustling back to their table.

“Here you are. Karma will be by to take your orders in a minute.”

As I’m about to turn and walk away, I feel the warmth, the strength, the pure unadulterated dominance of his hand circling my wrist to stop me from leaving. “How about you serve us?”

It feels like I’m hyperventilating, and his friend watches our interaction with an amused look in his own deadly gaze.

“Yeah, sure, are you ready to order?” I try to reach for my notepad and pen from my apron pocket, but he won’t let me go. “I’ll need my hand for that.” Why is his cocky half-smile so damn sexy?

“I like the feeling of you.”

My blush makes a comeback. Thankfully, I’m saved by a loud clatter in the kitchen, followed by Chet yelling out a few choice words, and he releases me from his hypnotizing hold.

“Interesting,” his friend mutters as my pen and pad are in hand now.

“I’ll take the steak and eggs. Steak, medium rare, eggs, over medium, hashbrowns shredded and extra crispy, and multigrain toast, loads of butter.

” Nodding, I finish writing before looking at the man who has stolen my body’s ability to function.

“I feel like something sweet.” The heat in both his words and eyes…

Good gravy! “I’ll have the cinnamon pancakes, a side of bacon, and scrambled eggs.

Got any cherry syrup?” His eyes drop to my pelvis, and I quickly scurry away to the sounds of his laughter and his friend giving him hell for scaring me off.

“Holy crap,” Karma says, fanning her face with a menu as I quickly type in their order. “How are you still standing?”

Martha shakes her head at us as she begins slicing pies, and a few customers walk in, preventing me from answering.

The rest of the morning remains much of the same.

Taking orders, serving coffee, preparing baked goods for the display case, and receiving the largest tip of my life when my guy and his friend leave.

“Two hundred bucks?” Karma gapes. “I’d ask what you did, but I know you weren’t under that table doing things you only wish you could because you haven’t stopped moving all morning.”

Slapping her arm and shooting her my best glare, I pocket my tip money and get ready to leave for my afternoon classes.

Afterwards, I’ll have to go grocery shopping.

I could drop the money off at home with my mom, but the last time I did that, she sat in a bar for two days, and I only got a call because she fell off her stool and wound up in the hospital getting stitches in her head.

Things have been rough for her since my dad left when I was thirteen.

He couldn’t resist his attraction to his secretary, knocked her up, then took off to Chicago, I think.

Where he is now, I have no idea. Luckily, Mom was smart enough to take him for half of everything in child support and alimony; however, since the business world deemed her unemployable due to her being a stay-at-home mom and wife for so many years, she started drinking.

He also had to pay off the mortgage, so all we have to take care of are utilities and taxes, which we can manage with the continued alimony and the $40,000 check for college tuition he sent me on my eighteenth birthday.

I hated him that day…fought the urge to burn the check, but I’m no idiot.

I wanted a degree, and that was the only way to do it debt-free.

Now, I work to help Mom with our few bills, save as much as I can, and make sure we’ll be okay when I graduate in a couple of months, in case I can’t find immediate employment.

There are days I feel blessed, and days I’d like to hunt my father down and run him over with my beat-up Honda, then back over him again.

Growing up, Mom was Mrs. Brady Bunch. Homemade dinner, fresh baked goods every day, never a speck of dust in the house, always there for me.

When Dad left, it broke her. She didn’t want to get out of bed most days, and even now, she mostly just moves to the couch.

She’s not a terrible mother, just sad, depressed, and stuck.

This weekend, I hope to get her up and out of the house.

A trip to the beach will do us both some good, giving me a break from studying and working, and providing her with a change of scenery.

Maybe seeing the outside world will help break through her depression, and she’ll remember some of the many beach trips we took when I was little.

It’s a long shot, but what have I got to lose at this point? She’s not getting better, and I’m miserable trying to show her that there is life outside of my dad. He’s gone; I’m not, and it hurts to know I’m not enough to draw her out of this stupor.

As a girl, we spent nearly every weekend at the beach, building sandcastles and making up stories of sunken ships and mermaids.

I dreamt of talking lobsters and singing fish because of her.

Any glimpse of the woman she used to be would be a delight.

Anything but the woman who smells bad, barely eats, and drinks to unconsciousness.

Because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.