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I don’t see Birdie every day at work when I’m stateside, which has been a good thing. She’s been on my mind enough as it is since the bloody knuckles incident. Constantly breathing her beguiling scent and seeing her shy smile would have been torture.
Birdie doesn’t attract attention by flaunting her fantastic curves, though I wish she would give them a little more love. What makes Birdie stand out like a beacon is that she’s wholesome. Everything about her is a true-blue American dream, something I didn’t have much of growing up.
She’s gentle, loyal, earnest, and has a protective streak a mile wide. And yes, she’s gorgeous, without needing heavy makeup and flash.
And I want her. Damn me, but I want her. There couldn’t possibly be anyone worse for Birdie to get wrapped up in than me, and that’s why I have to be more careful to keep my thoughts in line and my hands to myself.
As much as I want to take Birdie in hand and show her just how much her body can move a man, there’s one thing I want more. I want to find the pricks that made her feel like she was undesirable and feed their dicks to them.
It takes a real bitch of a male to beat on or put down a woman so that he can feel like a man. Someone like my father.
Shoving those thoughts aside, I finish sweeping up the last of the lettuce, ham, and cheese and dump it into the trash next to the island. Afterward, I notice a dick-shaped bowl in the center containing fruit. I shake my head and stash the broom back where Birdie had retrieved it. Then, because I can’t not do it, I walk around and check the windows and back door to make sure they’re locked.
While in Birdie’s office, I spot yet another dick; this one is holding a plant. A plant that I swear looks like a tiny person, complete with a tiny dick. The fuck? I consider asking Birdie about the phallus collection but decide I don’t really want to know.
I confirm that the office windows are locked and bend down to scan up and down the street. Part of me hopes to see a dark blue sedan parked nearby, but that would be too easy. And I’ve never been that lucky.
Thinking Birdie has had enough time to change, I pull myself upright again in time to hear footsteps coming down the hall. Birdie changed into ripped skinny jeans, white Converse, and a loose plaid shirt. The bouncing waves she wore are now in some messy knot on top of her head.
Overall, the whole look is sexy as hell, and I regret suggesting she change. It’ll be even harder now to keep my eyes off her, and I’m wearing the wrong damn pants to deal with a boner. Needing to clear my throat first, I ask, “Ready to go?”
Birdie fidgets with her shirt hem. “Why don’t you go get something? I’ll be fine here, just heating up a can of soup.”
“So help me, Birdie Crenshaw. If you don’t march your sweet ass out that door in the next two seconds.”
She darts through the front door, and I follow her onto the porch. “See, you can be a good girl,” I speak under my breath.
Under my watchful eye, Birdie locks up and uses her phone to activate her security system. Descending the steps, I ask, “Do you have cameras around the house?”
“Front and back,” she answers. “They’re motion activated.”
My eyes never stop moving, scanning the street and nearby homes as I lead Birdie to my truck. I open the passenger door for her, and she fidgets with her shirttail and does this shaking little half-laugh. “Me in a pickup truck wearing a blue plaid shirt. I guess I’m going country girl tonight.”
Birdie’s nervous chatter is uncharacteristic for her. She’s probably afraid of you and your grabby fingers. I yank my hand away from her back and put some distance between us, closing the door once she’s seated. Keep your hands to yourself, moron.
Neither of us speaks during the ten-minute drive to my favorite barbecue joint, but the silence doesn’t grate. I’ve never observed Birdie to be the overly talkative type. She’s always come across as being more shy and observing, but I worry she’s too nervous to speak.
I open my mouth to tell her where we’re going but stop myself at the last second. I picked The Pit because they have several salads on the menu. Not that I think Birdie needs to eat a salad, but since she had chosen one for her dinner, I figured this was a safe plan. I realized just in time how stupid it would have been to say so.
Birdie climbs out of the truck before I can get to her side and steps down onto the gravel surface of the parking lot. She takes in the Davey Crockett decor and looks down at herself when we enter the restaurant. “I’m going to be dreaming about banjos tonight, aren’t I?”
I choke on a laugh at her joke and nearly groan at the tightening in my gut. The more time I spend with this woman, the more I want to spend with her. Focus on her safety, not her ass. “Lucky banjos,” I murmur.
We’re soon seated, and Birdie surprises me by ordering a plate of wings and a beer instead of a salad. She didn’t order just any wings. Birdie asked for hell’s fury wings. I opt for a beer and a half rack of ribs.
Not wanting the whole evening to be void of conversation, I ask, “How long have you been working for Knot?”
“Since I was twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one? Is it rude if I say that’s shocking?”
“I don’t guess so. I mean, I was shocked when he hired me. No one else would.”
Having seen how thorough Birdie is about her work, her statement floors me. “Why?”
“Simple. Because I had a criminal record.”
I freeze with my beer halfway to my mouth. At my wide eyes, Birdie rolls hers. “Oh, please. After thinking I was dealing or hooking, you’re acting surprised now?”
