19. Make It a Good One

CHAPTER 19

MAKE IT A GOOD ONE

WESTON

I’m waiting outside of El Cortijo—a kickass little restaurant downtown on Bank Street—and practically tapping my toe with impatience.

Abbi isn’t late. But after a long week, I’m just really looking forward to seeing her again, and having excellent Mexican food.

And, fine, excellent sex. I’ve been buzzing ever since our night together, and I need a repeat. Now, preferably.

I've spent the last couple of days thinking about Abbi. Actually, that's the polite way of putting it. It would be more accurate to say that I spent most of my waking hours remembering how good it was to finally spread her out and love her up like I'd been wanting to for months now.

And now I'm hooked. I can't stop thinking about it, or planning our next naked adventure. Here stands a desperate man, hungry for both tacos and sweet, sweet satisfaction.

“Weston!” I swing around to see her trotting down the sidewalk toward me, a hat perched on her head, her cheeks pink from the cold. “Were you waiting long?”

“Nope,” I say, lunging for her. I pull her in and kiss her hello. Very firmly.

She wraps her arms around me and gives it right back. But then she breaks off the kiss before I’m ready. “Well hello, sailor. How was the war?”

“Just been, um, waiting to do that.” I give her a big smile. Then I grab the door handle and usher her inside. “Have you been here before?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s so cute.”

It is, I guess. The restaurant is in one of those old metal diner cars from the fifties. There’s counter seating on the right, and a single row of booths stretching the length of the left side.

Luckily, there’s a spot open in the middle, and a waitress shows us to the table and puts down two paper placemats. “Can I start you off with some drinks? Beer? Sangria? Margarita?”

Abbi’s eyes light up. “I’d love a margarita. On the rocks, no salt. Thanks!”

I order a beer, and then watch as Abbi scans the menu. “God, this looks great.”

“It is.” I chose this place because it’s casual. The food is amazing here, but it isn’t date-night fancy. I didn’t want to make a big statement, you know?

Just a casual dinner between friends.

Friends who are definitely getting lucky later. If I have anything to say about it.

“What's your usual order?” Abbi wants to know.

“The lengua tacos. Oh, and we have to get some guacamole. This is my treat, by the way. Because you won our bet.”

“Yum. This is a treat. Although I'm not convinced I won this bet, Westie.”

The nickname makes me smirk. “You absolutely did. Besides, I was in the mood for Mexican.” I am also in the mood for Abbi, who's happily perusing the specials on a card taped to the napkin dispenser.

When the waitress comes back a few minutes later, Abbi actually giggles as the frosty margarita lands in front of her. “Someone else bringing me a drink! This is awesome."

Well, hell. Now I want to bring her all the drinks. "So how's the job search going?" I ask after the waitress takes our order.

“It’s…going,” she says, propping her cheek in her hand. "I have two interviews coming up in New York, one at a big clothing brand, and one at a bank. But one of the jobs is in social media.”

"That's not good?"

She fingers her silverware. “It could be good. I realize that everyone starts somewhere. But some of these brands are so big that they have a stable of young women who only do social media. It's a game of likes and clicks. But there’s no way to advance. And when you can't stand it anymore, you quit and they just find another fresh-faced grad.”

“So you'll keep looking,” I say.

“I’m going to try. I have a lead on a job at a mortgage bank, too. That's the opposite situation—it’s all interest rates and credit checks and building the loan portfolio."

“That sounds…”

"Dry," she prompts. "It's okay, you can say it. Maybe I have to pay my dues somewhere boring. I still need a paycheck and a foot in the door somewhere. And if I pick something in a major city, at least I'll be locating myself in a decent job market."

"You'll get there.'' I sound like a damn cheerleader. But I mean it. Who wouldn't want Abbi on their team? “Someone will appreciate you for more than chicken wings and beer."

"God, I hope so."

"You'll probably get a good recommendation from the flannel people, right?"

"Oh, definitely. In fact, they've asked me to come in for a few hours tomorrow."

“Weren’t you done with that internship?”

"I was. But now they want to pay me fifteen bucks an hour to straighten out the new intern. It sounds like she's super clueless. She keeps posting rectangular images in the company Instagram feed."

"Oh the horror."

Abbi grins. "The flannel people are so confused. They don’t know what to do with a millennial who can't handle social media. It’s like a duck who refuses to quack.”

I crack up. “Any chance the flannel people will offer you a job?”

Her eyes meet mine as she shakes her head. “It’s a family business. They could be so much more if they tried, you know? The quality is there. But they’ve been making the same product line for fifty years. Besides—guess what they wanted from me as an intern?”

“Social media?”

She makes her fingers into a gun and shoots me. “You got it. And only social media. They see me coming with my marketing degree—and barely old enough to legally drink a margarita—and they’re like, here is our TikTok account. Please do whatever it is that TikTok is for .”

I snort. “And did you light up TikTok for them?”

“You know it. I dressed up the owner’s dog in flannel and got three million views.”

“ Three million? ” I yelp.

“It’s a really cute dog,” she says from over the rim of her margarita glass. “And it’s really nice flannel.”

“But no wonder companies want you to do social media, babe. You’re good at it.”

The compliment makes her blush. “I probably just got lucky. But enough about dogs in PJs. What’s up with you?”

“First, a big test in organic chemistry. That's going to take some work. And then back-to-back games against Notre Dame.”

“You fly there, right?”

“Thank God. It's too far for a bus ride. And we always play both the season's games on the same weekend.”

“Are road trips fun?” she asks me.

“Totally fun. But Sunday night is always a doozy for me. It’s hard to catch up.”

She tilts her head and studies me. “It’s Sunday night right now. Should you be studying?”

“No,” I insist. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week.” Things like that don’t usually fall out of my mouth. I don’t like to give anyone the wrong idea.

It is, however, true.

I see another stain of pink hit her cheeks. But she doesn’t engage the topic any further. “I’ll bet not many hockey players are premed. They don’t work as hard at the academics as you.”

“Some don’t,” I admit. “Next year when I'm trying to write med school applications during hockey, it's going to be hell.”

“Where do you want to go to grad school? ”

“Here, actually. Burlington's program is pretty good. I'm close to my crazy family, but not too close. And there's the possibility that I could use my fifth year of NCAA eligibility. I was injured my sophomore year and didn’t play.”

“Oh! So you could play hockey in grad school?”

“Yeah, or maybe do some coaching if I can't make the schedule work. Coach has been building this team so well the last couple of years. Great things are coming, and I want to see it play out.”

“That's fun, Westie.” She gives me a bright smile. “Table seventeen wouldn’t be the same without your leadership.”

I nudge her feet under the table. “You're trolling me.”

“Just a little. Someone else will have to serve the beer, though. I’ll be too busy running the world.”

“Or at least the world’s TikTok account,” I point out.

“Exactly,” she says with a grin.

After dinner, I hold her hand as we walk back toward campus. The night is frigid, and we have January air blasting in our faces. “I guess I didn’t think this through.”

“We’re from Vermont, Westie.” She squeezes my hand. “We can take it.”

“If you need warming up, though, I’m volunteering.”

She snickers. “Maybe you did think this through.”

“Not to brag, but I don’t usually have to freeze a woman to get her into bed.”

Abbi gives me a sly glance. “Is that where the night is headed?”

“It is if I get to choose. Can I come over?” Please say yes . I’ve got it so bad.

“Yes,” she says softly.

“If tonight isn't good timing, I'd understand. I know it’s your only night off.”

“No, it's nice,” she says sounding a little shy. “I’d like to spend my night off with you.”

Something warm and delicious curls through my belly when I hear this. “My place? Or yours. ”

“Mine,” she says. “It’s closer. And more, uh, private.”

“That’s certainly true. Your place it is.” I hitch my gym bag up on my shoulder and lengthen my stride toward her little apartment.

“See?” she says when we finally arrive inside. “It’s warm! And I only have you to thank.”

“Holy cow,” I crow as the heat hits my cold face. “It’s actually hot in here. I’ve created a monster.”

“Well, your system of tricking the thermostat is awesome, but it isn’t easy to fine tune.” She hangs up her coat on the back of the door before crossing the room to pick up a broom. She uses the stick to knock the washcloth off the thermostat.

“I’m glad you’re not freezing anymore.” I take off my coat and hang it up with Abbi’s. “Plus, this is going to make it a lot easier to get you naked. Am I right?” I give her a sleazy wink.

“You might be,” she says shyly. “Want a soda?” She taps her fingers against the countertop in her tiny kitchen.

“Only if you do.” She looks a little shy all of a sudden. I hope that doesn’t mean she’s having second thoughts about us.

I really hope not.

Then I glance around her apartment and notice something. “You did some redecorating?”

She gives a shrug. “A little. It was cluttered before.”

“But now it’s pristine .” The desk is tidy. The bookshelf is straightened. The kitchen is spotless. And the bed is made up crisply, with the pillows perfectly aligned side by side. “Do you clean a lot? Does it help you clear your head?”

“Sometimes,” she mumbles, her gaze on her shoes.

“Or, and maybe I’m out of line, here…” I stalk across the room and cup her chin until she looks up at me with guilty eyes. “You cleaned because you thought I might come over tonight?”

“There might be some truth to that.” She bites her lip.

“Were you hoping so?” I ask in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“Then why are you shy now?” I whisper, my thumb tracing a slow arc across her smooth cheek. “Because I don’t feel shy at all right now. I feel like peeling you out of these clothes and reminding you how much fun we had the other night. ”

She puts a hand in the center of my chest, “Because you’re so…”

“So…?” I wait.

Abbi blushes. “So fun. So extra . And I usually fall asleep on my textbooks, smelling like chicken wings.”

“Well, I do love chicken wings,” I tease, moving in closer. “We should be fine.”

She gives me a wan smile. “Maybe I just forgot how this works.”

“Just kiss me already,” I whisper. “And I’ll remind you. I promise.”

Her gray eyes blink up at me, and that blush grows deeper.

“I’m waiting, Abbi. Make it a good one. Set the tone. You’d be surprised what a good kiss can?—”

She shuts me up with soft lips that firm up against mine.

Fuck yes . I catch her in both arms and pull her against my hungry body. She makes a soft little whimper, and that sound slices through me like lightning across a summer sky.

This is just what I’ve been craving. More of Abbi’s kisses. More of her silken hair between my fingers. More more more .

I slide my hands down over her sweet ass and then lift her onto that counter. There. Now I can own her mouth without bending down. Now I can sink into her kiss with abandon. And never stop.