Worked Up (Made in Jersey #3) Page 2

  Or not.

  She chewed her upper lip a beat then straightened her shoulders, pressing those perspiration-slick tits against the already-stressed buttons of her dress. For one fleeting moment, the fog of arousal enveloped his brain, making him wonder if his command of show me had been misinterpreted. For the love of everything holy, this—this—was his worst nightmare. Sprouting wood in The Third Shift during a baseball game like some horny kid ordering his first beer.

  As Doe Eyes rooted through her bag for the book, Duke did something for the first time in his life. He watched the game without really seeing it. The effort to keep his gaze off her jiggling breasts and pressed-together knees as she went through the bag garnered all his concentration, blurring the action on the screen like it was happening under a foot of water. When she finally pulled the book out, Duke slowly returned his attention to her, watching her down the neck of his Bud as he sipped.

  “Would you say you offend easily?”

  Mouth full of beer, Duke shook his head.

  Still, she hesitated. “Really I didn’t even get started—”

  “Let’s see it.” When she bristled at his tone, Duke sighed, knowing he needed a new tactic if he wanted his curiosity appeased. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Samantha.”

  Now, why the hell did her name make his cock feel chafed inside the denim of his jeans? Somehow it did, though. Made him think of her naked on dark blue, silk sheets, high heels dangling off her toes before falling, knocked free by a man’s thrusts. His. Goddammit, this wasn’t convenient whatsoever. The sooner she moved on—went back to whatever upscale neighborhood she’d come from—the better. “Look, Sam.” She tilted her head over the nickname, sliding thick chocolate hair over one shoulder. “You can’t just tell a man you drew him as an evil gladiator villain and not cough up the goods.”

  Duke swallowed when a light came on in her eyes, a corner of her mouth ticking up.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it sounds badass.” Duke realized he was massaging his right knee—the old injury tended to act up when he sat too long. “Most men would have a hard time being offended by someone drawing them that way.”

  “Yeah,” she said, perking up in seeming agreement. “Probably, right?”

  Duke shook his head. “Was that a question, or—”

  “No, an answer.” She waved a hand, before returning it to the book. “Have you heard the story of David and Goliath?”

  “You have been sent here to confuse me, Sam.”

  She laughed, a textured, throaty sound. “Why did you immediately start calling me Sam? You didn’t even take a warm-up lap with Samantha.”

  “This isn’t a three syllable establishment.”

  “Oh? I missed the sign on the way in.” She stared at him a moment, as if he’d grown another foot, before visibly shaking herself. “Back to David and Goliath.”

  “I know it. Underdog story. Slingshot.”

  Her breath rushed out. “Thanks, Cliff.”

  Duke lifted his eyebrows. “Who?”

  “Cliff Notes,” Sam mumbled. “Never mind.”

  Amusement wafted in his chest, moving higher, higher, until Duke was fighting a smile. “That’s not bad.”

  “What?”

  “You calling me Cliff Notes.” When she went back to staring at him, Duke shifted in his chair. Mostly because Sam staring at him gave him permission to stare back and that would only lead to trouble. Women were not on his agenda, let alone this drop-dead gorgeous out of towner so far out of his league it wasn’t even funny. “So, uh…I’m Goliath in this drawing.”

  She tugged the book away from her body, gaze running over what Duke assumed was the sketch. “I’m not sure you should be anymore.” Above her head, the sound of a baseball cracking off wood sounded, but Duke didn’t look up. “It’s important I get the characterization right. Can I get a do over?”

  Huh. He kind of wanted to see the evil gladiator, but didn’t much appreciate the idea of her feeling disappointed in herself. “What are you going to draw me as this time?”

  “A grizzled sea captain.”

  Christ, this woman was a trip and a half. “Have at it.”

  A flush of relief coasted over her features, making Duke’s pulse stutter…and keep on stuttering. As her pencil scratched over the fresh sheet of paper, she didn’t seem to notice a dozen people discreetly moving behind her to watch the show. She must have been good, too, because heads bobbed, elbows nudged. Wasn’t every day Hook residents were impressed by something, so by the time she finished, Duke could admit to a touch of impatience to see the results. Especially considering he wouldn’t have pegged himself as a sea captain in a million years.

  Finally she took a deep breath and turned the notebook around. Before he could stop it, a slow whistle passed beneath his breath. The drawing wasn’t simply good; it belonged in a museum or something. The level of detail she’d managed to include in such a short time…it blew his fucking mind. His chest had been drawn large, decorated with embroidery and rows of shaded buttons, the hat sitting low over Pencil Duke’s eyes, but not enough to hide his “you talkin’ to me?” expression.

  “I gave you a sword,” she murmured, watching him carefully. “Since you didn’t get to see yourself as an evil gladiator.”

  Duke leaned in to get a better look, clearing his throat to disguise the stool’s groaning protest. “That’s one mean looking sword—” He cut himself off when his gaze finally reached his caricature’s lower half. A peg leg. She’d drawn him with a peg leg. Duke searched her face for some trace of teasing but found none. Didn’t stop an annoying weight of discomfort from settling in his chest. For some reason, he didn’t like this woman knowing he had a weakness. “It’s good, Sam. Real good,” Duke finished, sitting back in his stool and trying—failing—to focus on baseball.

  He could feel her watching, could sense her confusion. What was wrong with him? Making this sweetheart feel poorly over noticing his injury, pointing it out. That wasn’t right. Duke reached out to set his empty bottle on the bar, intending to give the drawing a closer look, the attention it deserved. But he paused when Sam flipped the notebook page over, ripping it out…and setting the gladiator drawing on his lap.

  Another incredible sketch, if slightly more hurried than the second one. But what caught Duke’s attention was the gladiator’s leg. It had a deep wound, blood gushing down around the leather-wrapped ankle. But that made no sense. She’d drawn the sketch before he’d walked across the bar. “How did you know about my limp when you drew this?”

  Samantha frowned. “You have a limp?”

  “Yeah.” Why couldn’t he fill his lungs properly? “Got hit with some shrapnel while I was stationed overseas. With the Army.”

  “Oh. I’m…sorry.” She split a look between him and the notebook, still held to her chest. “It must have been the way you were leaning on the bar. Does it bother you?”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “No,” she whispered, her knees pressing tight. “No, it makes you even more resilient.”

  Duke was still trying to decide on a reaction to that unexpected answer when Samantha started…packing up? She replaced the notebook in her bag and took out a purple wallet. Then she extricated a ten-dollar bill and wedged it beneath her martini glass. With a shrug, she picked up the drink, drained it, and set it back down on the money.

  “Where are you going?” Duke shouted before pulling back on his reins to lower his voice. “You can’t just draw me as a sea captain and leave.”

  Samantha slid off her stool, dragging the dress up two sweet thighs that matched her two sweet tits. “Telling me what I can’t do? You’re being presumptuous again, Duke.”

  There were a handful of certainties in Duke’s life. One, baseball. Two, his tools. Grease. Working with his hands. Three, barbequing on summer Saturdays. Four, he didn’t have any use for women, romantically speaking. Five, this wasn’t going to be the last time he saw Sam.
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  She hitched her satchel up onto her right shoulder, dropping a hand to her belly to rub in a circle. “Can you point me toward the closest restaurant?”

  “No. I can’t.”

  Her mumbled response sounded something like touchy, touchy, but she moved for the door before he could ask for clarification. Duke followed her out into the night, ignoring the curious bar folk—his lifelong neighbors and coworkers—who watched them from the window. And no wonder, since he’d followed a woman from the bar exactly zero times before tonight. Hell, he usually never left his seat. “I can’t direct you to the nearest restaurant because nothing is open in Hook past ten.”

  Nose wrinkling, she scanned the block. “There’s no diner?” He shook his head. “What about a deli?” Another shake. “A bodega where I can get an egg sandwich?”

  Duke pointed at her. “Manhattan girl.”

  “Guilty.” A growl kicked up in the vicinity of her stomach. “And hungry.”

  Manhattan. Not far in terms of miles, but she might as well be on a different planet. “Wherever you’re staying…there has to be something to eat there.”

  She didn’t respond, but the way her shoulders sagged told Duke no, there wasn’t. Jesus, he was actually going to feed this woman, wasn’t he? Yeah. No choice in the matter. He was good and stuck. For the next hour, anyway. Once he dropped her off, that would be it. No numbers exchanged. Nothing. “Come on, Sam. I know a place not too far away.” He gestured with a sweep of his arm. “My truck is this way. Try not to chew on the seats.”

  Chapter Two

  Duke had reverted back to evil gladiator, it seemed. Back inside The Third Shift, he’d softened into weathered sea captain, but as they stalked toward his truck, his limp getting less noticeable the closer they got, she could picture the leather battle gear climbing up his back and slithering around his calves. And it seemed his reformation was luring her back in time as well, because she sorely wanted to pick up a stone and hurl it at his flexing, mile-wide back.

  This wasn’t what Samantha had in mind when she’d ventured into The Third Shift. People doing favors for others led to being grateful. Or doing favors in return. Owing someone. She only owed one person in this world—Renner—and even he, the one person she trusted in the world, had found a way to use that trust for his own personal gain. That wouldn’t be the case with Duke, though, right? She lived a world away in Manhattan and, after tonight, they would be back to being strangers.

  “I didn’t ask you to take me out for food,” she mumbled, trotting to keep up with his long strides. “I have a protein bar in my bag that’ll hold me over until tomorrow—”

  “I know a place that makes the best egg sandwiches you’ll ever eat,” Duke said without turning around.

  Being somewhat of an egg sandwich connoisseur, Samantha had to admit that bold statement piqued her interest. “What makes them the best?”

  “The taste.”

  Samantha turned on a heel and walked in the opposite direction. But she’d only made it about three steps when Goliath took her hand. And she gasped at the feel—actually gasped—ogling his appendage like it were made of thorns. Which wasn’t far off. His palms and fingertips were blunt and rough. As though someone had taken sandpaper to them and rubbed vigorously, leaving scars to cover the damage. His hand was warm eroded stone. Why did it feel so wonderful?

  Usually, she avoided gestures such as holding hands like the plague. They were a gateway drug to more elaborate expressions of affection. Such as tender cheek cradling, day trips to Vermont to see the fall leaves. Or wedding engagements.

  Shivering, Samantha cast the thought aside. Been there, done that.

  She moved her gaze higher, higher, until her neck was craned enough to meet Duke’s eyes, which weren’t quite narrowed enough to hide the fact that she’d startled him. By walking away or gasping like a loser? Hard to tell.

  “The egg sandwiches aren’t on the menu at this bakery. But the guy makes them in back for regulars after hours.” Duke’s thumb slid over Samantha’s palm—just a tiny centimeter—before he dropped her hand as if it were on fire. “He makes sausage rolls, too, but I wouldn’t recommend them unless your stomach is made of iron.”

  “Did you hear about the guy who got a job at the bakery?”

  Duke shifted. “No.”

  Why am I doing this to myself? “He kneaded the dough.”

  Behind them, the bar door creaked up and slammed, the sound of baseball growing louder, then quiet. It reminded Samantha of the badump-bum drum roll that used to be delivered in old comedy clubs after a punch line. So, of course, she started to laugh, her fingers lifting and pressing against her lips in an attempt to keep a lid on the sound. No dice. There she was, laughing like a loon on a dark street, with Goliath staring her down. No wonder she usually stayed locked inside her office.

  “I’m not going to stop making the bad jokes. I’ve tried.” She sighed, kind of wishing they were still holding hands just so she could memorize the sensation. “So if you only like good jokes, this might be the end of the line for us.”

  He was quiet way too long. “Who said it was a bad joke?”

  “Your lack of reaction.”

  “I’ve got too many things that require reactions right now.”

  Maybe it was silly—or a product of her lack of social activity—but she found that confusing statement rather comforting. “So this isn’t the end of the line?”

  Another pause that lasted far longer than she liked. “Not yet.”

  But it would end. She read that confirmation between the lines and it eased her somewhat. “When will that be—”

  “Let’s go.” He strode off, back in the direction of his truck, leaving Samantha frowning after him. Best egg sandwich, huh? She’d see about that. Visualizing a giant puddle of mud for Duke to step in, a smile replaced her frown and she jogged after him. When they reached his oversized pickup, she was surprised to find it clean as a whistle, the surface glinting beneath the flickering streetlight.

  She paused at the back bumper, removing the cell phone from her purse and snapping a picture of the license plate, her fingers flying over the screen to open a series of apps, accessing her camera roll—

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m scheduling a tweet on TweetDeck. Of your license plate.” She replaced the phone in her bag. “If I’m not home safe in an hour, your license plate gets tweeted along with the word help. In all caps.”

  “TweetDeck.”

  He’d never uttered the word before—that much was obvious. And it played right into his ancient gladiator persona so much, Samantha smiled.

  It stayed in place as he rounded back from the driver’s side, propping an elbow on the open truck cab, the vehicle dipping under his weight. “So this tweet thing…it’s like insurance? It would let everyone know you’re in trouble?”

  “Yes.” Maybe threatening someone via social media wasn’t the norm. Her smile slipped away at the thought. “It’s nothing personal, it just seemed like the most efficient way to not get killed. You know, on short notice.”

  “No, it’s good.” He dug out his own phone—a model Samantha was sure had been put out to pasture years ago—blunt fingers hunting and pecking their way over the surface. “Say the name again. I’m texting it to my sisters.”

  Oh. Ah. “To keep them safe?”

  He gave an absent nod, totally unaware that his gladiator armor had slunk to the ground, replaced by a waving patriotic super hero cape.

  “Um. TweetDeck.”

  “How the fuck do they name these things?” he muttered, still jabbing the screen. “What are they doing to us? Everything sounds ridiculous now.”

  “Who are they?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Apparently finished with his mission to protect, Duke shoved the cell back into his pocket and made for the driver’s side once more. “Hop in, Sam. TweetDeck is keeping you safe,” he said wryly.

  She hesitated for only a beat before j
oining Duke in the truck. Or rather, clumsily plopping on the vinyl seat after heaving herself into the monster-sized vehicle. “How many sisters do you have?”

  His sigh could have blown a ship out to sea. “Four.”

  Wow. Five kids. Having been an only child half her life, Samantha could only marvel at the idea. “Are you on a five-way text with them?”

  “Yes. Biggest mistake of my life.” He pulled out onto the dark street, hitting the blinker and turning right. “It’s like the mafia, these group texts. Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

  Another laugh slipped out. Samantha stared out at the road, kind of thrown by the whole situation, while being somewhat proud she’d gotten herself into it. Her Friday nights were usually spent in the park, sketching passersby or watching Bob Ross reruns on YouTube. Instead, she was in a pickup truck, being taken out for a meal by a big, impressive man. His casual attitude assured her this interaction would end on a tidy note afterward, no muss no fuss. Not bad, ol’ Sam.

  “So, Manhattan girl, what brought you to Hook? The scenery?”

  Samantha had to admit the place could use some sprucing, but there was an air of charm to the houses they passed. Pride went into maintaining them, if not money or extensive landscaping. But it was the kind of town kids could leave their bikes on the lawn overnight, which was more than she could say for Manhattan. “I’m…meeting with my brother on Monday. He’s out of town until then, so I’m staying in his place.” She could feel Duke’s attention on her profile. “And I guess I just wanted to see something other than my own four walls.”

  Duke grunted. “I assume you’re an illustrator.”

  “Yes,” she answered, warmth moving in her breast. But the warmth dissipated when she remembered the dream business she’d been this close to starting was no longer a reality. No, you’ll get there. It’ll just take longer now. “I illustrate children’s books.” A sudden thought had her head whipping around. “You don’t have kids, do you?”