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Well, I guess it was better than the assholes who sent dick shots.
Here we were, placing the remaining items from the bake sale into the trunk of my Italian sportscar.
“Are you sure about this?” Cupcake asked. “I just live a couple buildings down.”
Ouch. She lived in a shitty area, which told me she was like a struggling artist. “Nonsense. I’ll be happy to bring you home after our drink.”
She pressed her hands down on her jeans and sighed. “It can’t be a fancy place.” When she lifted one leg, I couldn’t help but notice her Converse tennis shoes were purple. So was her top. “Cause I won’t pass the dress code.”
I chuckled and wanted to tell her there wasn’t a restaurant or bar in the city who’d block entrance because of my date’s attire, but I thought it too… pretentious of me. Imagine that. Finding my potential behavior pretentious. Something else new.
“Have no fear, cupcake girl. Nothing fancy. Just fun. Hop in.”
She eyed the car again, shaking her head. “What are you, a millionaire?”
Bragging wasn’t in my best interest either. “A hand-me-down from my father.”
It wasn’t a complete lie since he’d bought the Maserati as a present one Christmas. Matching expensive vehicles for all three brothers, just in different colors. Oh, Dad, you shouldn’t have.
“Oh. Wouldn’t I like to be adopted into your family.”
I hit the key fob unlocking the doors, thinking about closing hers as any gentleman would do. First, I was no gentleman. No one had ever called me that. Second, I had a feeling she would balk at my gesture or worse.
After starting the engine, I glanced over, somehow unable to keep my eyes off her. “So, Cupcake. Do you think it’s time to exchange names?”
She gave me a coy look. “And ruin the mystery? Why do that?”
“Mmm… Good point. So, Cupcake and the Lone Ranger it is.”
“The name suits you anyway.”
“How is that?”
She dared to drag the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip. Did the girl not understand I was a man? I hungered? I took what I wanted?
I fisted the steering wheel instead of yanking her onto my lap, which would be a completely irresponsible reaction.
But one I’d thoroughly enjoy.
“So, what do you do, Italian sports car driver?”
She made me smile like no other woman had in a very long time. “I’m a professional boxer.” Why not add to the mystery?
I barely had to glance in her direction to realize she wasn’t buying it. That was easy to tell by her scrunched-up nose.
“Not buying it in the least,” she said with a cute little lilt in her voice.
“Why is that?”
“Well, your watch likely cost over one hundred thousand dollars for one thing. Not that a boxer couldn’t afford expensive jewelry but usually they spend money on gold chains and maybe gold teeth since they likely need to have several replaced over the course of their career.”
“A harsh stereotype.”
“Yeah, well, I dated a boxer once. He was extremely stereotypical including having way too much testosterone for anyone to deal with.”
“Did he hurt you?” I had a completely possessive tone in my voice.
“Don’t worry,” she mused. “I’m a little fighter. One attempted punch and I almost broke his hand after issuing a solid punch of my own. He got the message clear enough. Ran out crying like a baby.”
