Page 14 of Her Filthy Grump
She slaps her hands on her hips. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not looking to find him and pour all my love into him. I mean there are usually reasons people act out. He probably had a bad childhood.”
“I’m not going to disagree with you, but I’ll issue you a free piece of advice. You can’t fix people unless they want to be fixed. You should stay away from him.”
What in the hell’s wrong with me? It isn’t shit to me who she hangs with. I don’t even like her. She’s the type that’s too busy getting into everyone’s business. I don’t need any of that in my life. Prying. Talk shit to death. No, thank you.
Her eyes narrow into slits. “No shit, Sherlock.” Then, she leans forward. “But…. if I wanted to fix him, I would. And I bet I could convince him to change his ways. Men are simple. Press your tits together, pucker your lips like you’re sucking on a lemon, and lead them around by their dicks.” She assumes the pose in question and stares me down.
I’m not being led around by my dick. Screw that. “Have a good day.” I snatch the to-go container off the counter and stomp through the café.
Don’t let her get to you.I lighten my tread.
Chapter Nine
Layla
The warm breeze blows a strand of hair in front of the camera, and I drag it back to its rightful position behind my ear.
Why didn’t I put it up? That’s a simple answer. The setting sun was perfect for getting some quick photos of the downtown buildings before dark. There wasn’t time for anything else but getting the right shot.
As I let go of the camera, it falls to the end of the strap and bounces against my upper stomach. The traffic in the street meanders past as several people wave and call out.
I return Carol Lawrence’s greeting. Two cars behind her is Grace Masters with her two girls. Each of the girls hang out the window with their arms sticking out. That would have been a great photo.
I pivot away from the street and study the fire station. The main doors are shut, which is a sign that no fires have occurred today. The sidewalk is new and devoid of weeds. I love the vibe of the building, and my clients are always clamoring for photos of firemen. For some reason, women find firemen sexy.
Cole steps out of the side door wearing jeans and a T-shirt. His biceps ripple under the tight armbands. And that’s why. “Hey, Cole. Can I take a quick photo?”
“Sure.” He shrugs and grins. Cole isn’t the least bit shy about his looks. “You want me to take off my shirt?”
“Of course.” I waggle my eyebrows. “You know how Mrs. Thomas loves her some firemen eye candy.”
“Does she need a cover for one of her books?” He tugs his shirt over his abs, up to his chest, and over his head. The tattoos that line his chest and shoulder are droolworthy. Except, I’ve known him my entire life, and he does nothing for me.
“She wanted some images of the fire station for some teasers, but I know she’ll eat up some pics of you.” I raise the camera to my eye and take a test shot. The lighting is perfect, and Cole’s sexy, come-hither gaze is on point.
For several seconds, I shoot in silence. Then, I lower the lens.
When I see Kameron walking from the parking lot toward us, I squeak.Why are you surprised to see him? He works here, for goodness sake.I’m going to pretend that’s why I’m on edge whenever he’s around. And that it has nothing to do with how good he looks in a T-shirt. Or how I’d love to see the tattoos under his clothes.
“Hey, man.” Cole waves and works his T-shirt up his arms. “You should see some of Layla’s work. She’s a whizz with a camera.”
“I see.” His jaw works as he glances between us.
“I’ve got a great idea. You should let Layla photograph you. Her client would love your brooding attitude. The woman writes romance novels and would love you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kameron stops in mid-step and cocks his chin out.
“You know….” Cole shrugs. “You’ve got this dark, wounded hero thing going on. Women dig that stuff.”
“Whatever.”
Just ignore him. He’s not going to stick around. Newcomers pass through as fast as they arrive. The second Roman’s back in town, he’ll bail. I frown. So why did my dad hire him? That’s not my business. “Thanks. Cole, I appreciate your help.”
“No problem, Cupcake.”
“Stop it,” I growl.God, I hate that nickname.Girls don’t get guys with the nickname of Cupcake. It either makes people think of short and stubby or sweet and innocent.
In my case, it was a combination of both–another reason why I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin. That and my father glared at any boy who gave me one second of attention.