Good Girl Page 41

I hop down and pull my dress back over my head, searching around for my panties, scooping them up like it’s no big thing before I head toward the stairs.

Yup, definitely tender, I realize as I start up the steps. I smile, feeling an odd sort of feminine pride. A lifetime of practical celibacy, and here I am tying guys to beds and having sex on kitchen tables.

But in the back of my mind, something’s bothering me.

It’s not until I’m in the shower that it hits me, and my happy smile slips away with the slow dawn of confused dismay.

Noah Maxwell has been in my bed, and I’ve been in his, and we’ve just gone at it in the kitchen…

And not once, in all of those times, has he kissed me.

Not since that first day in Home Depot, and I’m not sure we can count that since it was all for show and he was unimpressed.

I have no idea what the lack of kissing means.

But I’m pretty sure it can’t be good.


Twenty-four hours after screwing one of the most famous girls in the country—and liking it a hell of a lot—I want to do it all over again.

And again. And again.

Which is exactly why I need to get out of here. Away from the house, away from her before we turn this fling into something…dangerous.

I send a quick text to the boys. Vaughn has to work late, but Finn’s up for grabbing a drink, so after feeding Ranger, I grab the keys and head toward the truck.

Truthfully, I feel a bit like a shit avoiding Jenny like this—again. But then, she hasn’t sought me out all day either, so I have to think we’re on the same page about that. Last night wasn’t quite a mistake—it felt too fucking good for that. But it sure as hell wasn’t smart either.

The light’s on in her bedroom window as I approach the main house, and I wince when I see the window open. Maybe I should find a place to start parking the truck other than the gravel driveway right outside her window.

I brace myself for the familiar sight of her blond head popping out the window the second she hears the crunch of my boots on the gravel, but there’s no sign of movement upstairs.

I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.

A moment later, I realize why she’s not in her bedroom: she’s coming out the front door.

We both freeze when we spot the other, and though I can’t see her face in the dark, there’s no mistaking the bright orange wig or the flash of metal in her hand as the light from the inside of the house shines on the keys in her hand before she closes the front door.

“Looks like we both had the same idea tonight,” she says in a voice that’s pitched slightly lower than usual.

“Looks like,” I reply.

She jingles the keys once, studying me, and I have the sense that she’s feeling as off balance as I am.

But Jenny, being Jenny, recovers more quickly, and a smile appears on her face. God help me, I feel something expand in my chest a bit because the smile is genuine. For me.

“Where are you off to?” she asks, walking toward me. She’s wearing a jean skirt, white cowboy boots, and a sleeveless green top that, while not revealing in the least, looks silky as hell, and my palms itch to slide my hands over it. Under it. Even with the horrid orange wig, I want her.

“Gonna grab a beer,” I say, trying not to stare at her legs and failing. “You?”

Jenny stops in front of me, smelling citrusy and sweet. “Same. I mean, I don’t know where, I was going to drive into town. I know there’s not much, but I need to get out of the house.”

She’s right. There’s not much in “town.” Glory has a sad excuse for a grocery store, a gas station, a mediocre cafe that closes by seven, and a bar.

One bar.

If she’s looking for a drink and a change of scenery, she’s got one destination.

It’s also my destination.

Fuck. I do not want this. My entire reason for leaving is to get away from her, and now we’re headed to the same place.


That’s not entirely accurate. My goal tonight isn’t getting away from her so much as keeping my hands off of her.

Something that’ll be a hell of a lot easier in a public place. I mean, it won’t be easy. I can’t not want to touch her. But it’ll be easier than staying here with nothing but stars and quiet nights and about a thousand places to fuck all night.

She sighs a little at my silence. “Let me guess. There’s only one bar, it’s where you were headed, and now you’re trying to think of a way to get out of spending time with me.”

I narrow my eyes at the resignation in her voice, and I’m struck by the need to surprise her—to be something different than what she’s come to expect.

I jerk my head toward the truck. “Get in.”

She blinks. “Really?”

“You’re right, princess. There is only one bar, and yeah, I’m headed there. But you’ve got every bit as much right to be there as me.”

“So we’re going together?”

Shit. When she says it that way, it sounds…important.

“Just get in the fucking truck,” I mutter.

Surprisingly, she does as I say without arguing. For once.

Her fingers slip under the wig at the nape of her neck as I start the truck, and I glance over. “Do you really have to wear that thing?”

She gives me a look. “Depends. You want your face all over the news tomorrow when you get photographed with Jenny Dawson?”

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