Starfire (Erotic Romance) (Peaches Monroe) (3 page)

~

The three of us went to brunch at Pancake International. It’s a little like the International House of Pancakes chain of restaurants, but all the furniture was sourced from yard sales, none of the dishes match, and they only have six laminated menus, so each table has to share one. Actually, they’re nothing like IHOP, except for serving pancakes.

I ordered the Elvis in Paris, which is crepes with peanut butter, bananas, and honey; bacon on the side, and… heaven help me but just talking about it now makes my stomach rumble for more. I’m not even going to tell you what the other girls had, because you’ll go insane. Let’s just say that while the restaurant lacks in menus and decoration, all is forgiven when they wheel over the bubbling chocolate fountain.

We were done with our plates and I’d ordered a mocha refill when Shayla pulled out her phone. Golden and I laughed and pointed at her.

“Screw you guys, it’s a stupid rule,” she said.

I shrugged and pulled out my phone, since there was no need now to keep ignoring the message alerts.

Shayla had broken our little dining etiquette rule first, so she would be covering the tip portion of the whole meal, and now I was free to check Instagram and the other Usual Suspects.

A message from Adrian popped up first.

Adrian:
There aren’t enough five-dollar bills in the float, so I need you to come over and do a run to the bank while it’s still open.

Me:
I think not.

Adrian:
Then come take over for me and I’ll go to the bank.

Me:
Just put the “Back in Ten Minutes” sign up.

Adrian:
But people won’t clear out of the store! They have takeout coffees and they’re all comfortable. We should get rid of the chairs.

Me:
If we don’t have chairs, they just sit on the floor and lean on things. Trust me, chairs are better.

Adrian:
I’m trapped. Trapped by customers.

Me:
Pick the most trustworthy one and tell them they’re in charge for ten minutes.

Adrian:
That’s no way to run a business.

Me:
A business makes profits. Peachtree Books is more like a cultural institution.

Adrian:
Come help me. You owe me.

Me:
Owe you for what?! For ditching me last night? I only wanted you to come upstairs and talk.

Adrian:
Your hands were not interested in talking.

Me:
Oh, please. I barely touched you. Not like when you were playing Hide-n-Seek at my parents’ house and you pulled me down onto the bed on top of you.

Adrian:
That was an accident.

Me:
Last night was an accident, too.

Adrian:
You regret kissing me?

Me:
I don’t like labeling things.

Adrian:
I enjoyed kissing you. No regrets. You have really soft lips.

Me:
Stop thinking about my lips, because you had your chance and you blew it.

Adrian:
You mean last night? I told you. I don’t want to be with a drunk girl unless she’s my girlfriend. I’m not that kind of guy. Don’t say I blew my chance, because that’s not fair.

Me:
I meant you had your chance in high school. Back when I was in love with you and you were in love with Chantalle Hart.

Adrian:
I’m not in love with Chantalle Hart. She’s pretty, but she doesn’t have a lot of character.

Me:
You’re weird.

Adrian:
Come visit me. I need five-dollar bills. And I want to see how hungover you are.

Me:
I’m really busy. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do at my house.

Adrian:
I know you’re at Pancake International. That’s three blocks over. Just come by when you girls are done demolishing the chocolate fountain.

I looked up from my phone and glanced furtively around the small restaurant. Who told him I was there?

Paparazzi
, I thought with horror. They’d followed me here from LA, and now they were taking pictures of me with food crumbs on my chin, and uploading the images from the restaurant. Within minutes, “hilarious” trolls would be using their limited intellect to cobble together misspelled words, making memes of me for Tumblr.

Across the table from me, Golden laughed, her gaze down on her phone. Was she blushing? And twirling one of her pretty blond ringlets with her little hand? Yes, she was. And lately she’d been doing that whenever she flirted with Adrian Storm, which meant… there was no paparazzi stalking me after all. Adrian was two-timing me on the text messages.

I was both relieved and disappointed. I had my privacy, but only because I was just a regular girl.

“Sounds like a plan,” Shayla said to Golden, in response to a text Golden must have sent her from two feet away. That’s the danger of texting at a restaurant—it’s hard to stop once you start.

To me, Shayla explained, “Adrian needs a favor, so we’re going to swing by Peachtree Books after here.”

“Sure,” I said, pretending I hadn’t been talking to him myself.

Both of the girls stared at my hand, which was twirling my own blonde hair. My face burned with embarrassment.

“Who were you talking to?” Shayla asked.

“Keith Raven.”

“Isn’t it the middle of the night in Italy?”

I quickly pulled up his Instagram page on my phone and showed it to them. “We weren’t talking. I was just stalking his photos. Like a stalker. Feel free to make fun of me.”

“Who’s that chick?” Golden asked.

I glanced down at the photo. “That’s Tabitha,” I said calmly.

“One of the bag-of-hair girls? His sister or his ex?” she asked.

My mouth went dry, but I tried not to let on my surprise. “His girlfriend,” I said, my words sounding strained as they came out of my tight throat. “I totally predicted they were getting back together, which is why I wouldn’t go to Milan with him. I didn’t think it would happen so quickly, but she’s a model, too, so… it’s only natural… and stuff…”

Shayla reached across the table and patted my hand. “I’m sorry, P.”

“Don’t look at me like that. Nobody died, okay?”

Golden said, “If you don’t mind me asking, why were you sleeping with that Keith guy when you were in LA?”

To answer her question, I scrolled back through a few of Keith Raven’s photographs and showed Golden one of him wearing nothing but a pair of tattered jeans, his chiseled torso catching the light and shadows like a sculpture.

“Oh,” she said, nodding.

“His personality is just as nice,” I said.

Her face scrunched up. “Didn’t that feel weird, being naked with a real model? I know you did the underwear thing, which makes you a real model, too, but…?”

I sighed. “Keith dragged me to the gym once, but he never made me feel fat. He said he used to be shallow, but I don’t know if I believe it. Whenever he looked at me, I felt like he was seeing my soul.”

Golden’s eyes widened. “Scary.”

Shayla leaned across the table and socked Golden on the arm. (I totally forget what a tomboy Shayla is until we’re out with smaller girls and she goes around punching them, like a dude.)

“Why scary?” Shayla asked. “Is your soul all crusty and foul?”

Golden laughed, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We don’t want guys to know what we’re really like. Not until it’s too late for them to escape.”

Shayla tried to punch her arm again, but Golden jumped up from the chair and excused herself to the washroom.

“That girl has a dark side,” I said to Shayla once we were alone. “She practically told me to stay away from Adrian or she’d murder me in my sleep.”

“Did he do more than walk you home last night?”

“We’re just friends.”

“Blowjob friends or handjob friends?”

I pulled out some money for my portion of the bill and pushed the tray over to Shayla. “None of the above, which means I’ll be swept up in Hurricane Dalton. And I’m kinda looking forward to it.”

“But we hate him, right?”

“I’m willing to admit I may have overreacted just a bit to his movie script and those cheesy lines he fed me.”

“Peaches, I hate to break it to you, but…”

“What?”

Golden returned from the washroom, and the waiter came by to clear more dishes.

“I’ll tell you later,” Shayla said. “It’s probably nothing.”

As we gathered our purses and left the restaurant, I did wonder why she was being so cryptic, and if it had something to do with her removing my laptop battery, but then we walked outside and my attention was caught by a stylish woman slowly approaching in a convertible.

I recognized her as Dottie Simpkins, a seventy-two-year-old woman who gives charm workshops at the Beaverdale Community Center. She dyes her hair pink, and I’d like to say she doesn’t look a day over sixty, but my eyes work too well.

Dottie wore big sunglasses and a bigger grin. In the seat next to her was a rust-colored dog the size of a standard poodle.

“Hellooooooooo!” Dottie called out as she drove by slowly, waving at the three of us. We waved back and stood motionless on the sidewalk, as though we’d showed up in that spot, at that time, just to watch the very small parade of Dottie in her car.

“I want to be like that when I’m old,” Golden said.

“I want to be like that right now,” Shayla said. “But younger, and with a hot guy next to me.”

“You could do worse than a Labradoodle,” Golden joked. “They’re intelligent, devoted, and hypo-allergenic.”

“Those are the exact qualities I want in my next boyfriend,” Shayla said. “Also, I’d like for my next one to be gay. I think I could really commit to someone who won’t sleep with me.”

“Labradoodles are good for cuddling.”

“Golden, do you have puppies you’re trying to unload?”

“Did you know they were originally bred as guide dogs, but people really took to them as pets?”

I turned and gave Golden an appreciative look. You gotta love it when the topic turns to your friend’s field of experience, and they get to show off a little, but in a cool, understated way.

Golden worked as a veterinarian’s assistant, and was utterly happy with her career. She didn’t make vastly more money than me, but I envied the “realness” of her job. Unlike being a bookstore manager, people didn’t ask her what she was planning to do next.

We walked the four blocks to Peachtree Books, and I couldn’t help but gloat that Adrian had said it was three blocks, not four, and he was so, so, so wrong about that. I was right and he was wrong.

He was helping a customer when we walked in, so Shayla and Golden started browsing the new arrivals, and I grabbed some large bills from the register and crossed over to the bank.

When I arrived back at the bookstore with fives and rolls of coins, Adrian was entertaining the girls with a story about some idiot running through the forest in the dark.

He continued, “And then Peaches tripped over a tree branch and went splat on the path. She tried to blame poor, nearly-toothless Cujo for her clumsiness.”

Apparently, the idiot being discussed was me.

“Your dog attacked me!” I injected.

“Old Cujo can barely attack mushed-up dog food from a can.”

“He’s such a sweetheart,” Golden said. “I always enjoyed his checkups, and seeing your mom, but now you get to bring him to see me.”

“Right.” Adrian turned and gave me a funny look.

Golden noticed him making extended eye contact with me and shot me a hurt look.

“Your change is in the drawer,” I said, backing away toward the door. My armpits began to sweat as memories of the previous night came back unwanted. Me, kissing Adrian. Adrian, kissing me back, but then leaving me. All those moments back in high school, when I would have just melted if he’d given me the slightest interest. And now… seeing him invading
my
bookstore, the place that used to be my domain.

As I stared at Adrian’s lips, pink and surrounded by blond facial hair stubble that glinted like raw, brown sugar, I felt a powerful desire to kiss him again. I’d been drunk enough the night before that I couldn’t remember exactly how he kissed, but I did recall how it made me feel.

I shuffled closer to the door, wanting to leave, but also wanting to stay in his company. Why was Golden looking at me with so much suspicion? Could she read my mind? Did she know I was thinking about Adrian’s hot mouth around my nipple? My face flushed.

Peaches, don’t think about anyone licking your sweater puppies. Don’t think about them cupping your flesh and hungrily dragging their tongue across your flesh, your nipple hardening and straining toward their hot, open mouth.

The door behind me jingled merrily with a customer walking into the bookstore, and I jumped.

“Not so fast,” Adrian said, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

I caught the open door and backed away, toward the sunny sidewalk. “Dude, today’s my day off. You’re working, not me.”

“Staff meeting,” he said.

“News flash: we don’t do staff meetings.”

Adrian crossed his arms, his sinewy forearms drawing my eye. The guy really had filled out since high school, when he was so skinny and tall, like a string bean. I’d crushed on him pretty hard back then, and now that he’d filled out, he was even hotter—not just because muscles are hot, but because he looked strong enough to handle a curvy woman.

Adrian shrugged and rolled his shoulders back, his round bicep muscles straining against his black Led Zeppelin T-shirt, which was from his high school wardrobe and on the small side.

Oh, yes. Adrian had the strength to handle some dangerous curves. He could probably pick me up and hold my back to the wall, as I wrapped my legs around his waist, and…

“Seven o’clock,” he said. “I’ll just swing home and grab my mom’s car, then I’ll come pick you up at your house.”

“For a staff meeting?”

He glanced over at Golden, who was now pretending to peruse the magazines with Shayla. “Yeah. For bookstore business. I have some ideas.”