dropped, and he took a step away from me.
Wiping my eyes, I turned around, finding myself face to face with a very ticked off looking blonde who was on the fast track to melanoma with her tanning bed bronzed skin. In her strapless salmon colored dress, this Stacia person was dressed for a party, or simply to impress Demo, who appeared half sheepish, half bored as he rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets.
She sneered at me. “Who is this whore?”
My mouth dropped open. “I, uh, excuse me?” Okay, so Demo’s call from earlier wasn’t just a booty call. It’d been a booty call from his girlfriend. It was all coming together for me now. “Girlfriend?” I hissed at Demo.
He shrugged. “It’s not like that.”
“What are you telling her?” Stacia shrieked, her dangly earrings dancing around her face.
Glaring at Demo over my shoulder, I put my hand out. “Hi. I’m Marisol Vargas.”
“I don’t care who you are,” Stacia shoved past me, and thumped Demo on the chest. “Who is she? What are you doing with your arms around that tramp?”
He just grit his teeth; the nice guy from just moments ago was apparently long gone. “You’re misunderstanding—”
“ Misunderstanding ?” she bellowed.
My face, still wet from tears, scalded. “Okay, I’m out of here.”
“Marisol, wait.” Demo reached for my arm, but I moved too fast for him.
I’d been grabbed by one to o many men tonight. All I wanted now was to finish my work, collect my three hundred dollars, and go home. Sure, Cocinero expected me to sit and pet him while he ate, but at least he didn’t make me feel useless and completely stupid.
Well, not much, anyway.
“Goodnight, Demo.” I slammed the kitchen door behind me.
Chapter Eight
I didn’t hear a peep from Demo for a week, and hadn’t really expected to. After all, he was busy with his blonde girlfriend, who clearly had trust issues, and I wasn’t going to get the recipes—or a kiss—from Demo any time soon. Which was fine by me.
Sort of.
Okay, so I was kind of frustrated about it. I’d made two batches of baklava and one batch of dolmades that all turned out sub-par. I had no idea how to make authentic Greek delicacies, and not being capable of doing something never happened to me. Usually all it took was a test run and maybe some tweaking, and my food was good to go. But this time around? Argh. Not even close. Not for the amount of money these people were paying us.
And, adding to my list of frustrations, not only would I not be getting those much-needed recipes, but there would be no smooch-smoochy—or more —with Demo. While I hated to admit it, there was something about the way it felt resting against his chest that night. Happy, warm, safe . I could only imagine what being full-on seduced by His Royal Crankiness would be like. If my imagination had anything to say about it, probably pretty damn good. Not that I would ever find out.
Harrumph.
And then… exactly seven days and eight hours after what Lexie and Candace were referring to as the incident , I got a very terse voicemail from none other than Demo:
“Uh…yeah. This is Triple D’s calling. Your parts arrived, and I can fit the work in sometime this afternoon. I’ve got a pretty packed week, so if you don’t bring it in, you’ll wind up waiting another week or so, and I know how you feel about waiting. So… you know. Bring it on in.”
That man seriously needed to brush up his phone skills, that was for sure. Demo couldn’t have sounded less interested in me, or my business, and I didn’t imagine he’d given our little “moment”
Wiping my eyes, I turned around, finding myself face to face with a very ticked off looking blonde who was on the fast track to melanoma with her tanning bed bronzed skin. In her strapless salmon colored dress, this Stacia person was dressed for a party, or simply to impress Demo, who appeared half sheepish, half bored as he rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets.
She sneered at me. “Who is this whore?”
My mouth dropped open. “I, uh, excuse me?” Okay, so Demo’s call from earlier wasn’t just a booty call. It’d been a booty call from his girlfriend. It was all coming together for me now. “Girlfriend?” I hissed at Demo.
He shrugged. “It’s not like that.”
“What are you telling her?” Stacia shrieked, her dangly earrings dancing around her face.
Glaring at Demo over my shoulder, I put my hand out. “Hi. I’m Marisol Vargas.”
“I don’t care who you are,” Stacia shoved past me, and thumped Demo on the chest. “Who is she? What are you doing with your arms around that tramp?”
He just grit his teeth; the nice guy from just moments ago was apparently long gone. “You’re misunderstanding—”
“ Misunderstanding ?” she bellowed.
My face, still wet from tears, scalded. “Okay, I’m out of here.”
“Marisol, wait.” Demo reached for my arm, but I moved too fast for him.
I’d been grabbed by one to o many men tonight. All I wanted now was to finish my work, collect my three hundred dollars, and go home. Sure, Cocinero expected me to sit and pet him while he ate, but at least he didn’t make me feel useless and completely stupid.
Well, not much, anyway.
“Goodnight, Demo.” I slammed the kitchen door behind me.
Chapter Eight
I didn’t hear a peep from Demo for a week, and hadn’t really expected to. After all, he was busy with his blonde girlfriend, who clearly had trust issues, and I wasn’t going to get the recipes—or a kiss—from Demo any time soon. Which was fine by me.
Sort of.
Okay, so I was kind of frustrated about it. I’d made two batches of baklava and one batch of dolmades that all turned out sub-par. I had no idea how to make authentic Greek delicacies, and not being capable of doing something never happened to me. Usually all it took was a test run and maybe some tweaking, and my food was good to go. But this time around? Argh. Not even close. Not for the amount of money these people were paying us.
And, adding to my list of frustrations, not only would I not be getting those much-needed recipes, but there would be no smooch-smoochy—or more —with Demo. While I hated to admit it, there was something about the way it felt resting against his chest that night. Happy, warm, safe . I could only imagine what being full-on seduced by His Royal Crankiness would be like. If my imagination had anything to say about it, probably pretty damn good. Not that I would ever find out.
Harrumph.
And then… exactly seven days and eight hours after what Lexie and Candace were referring to as the incident , I got a very terse voicemail from none other than Demo:
“Uh…yeah. This is Triple D’s calling. Your parts arrived, and I can fit the work in sometime this afternoon. I’ve got a pretty packed week, so if you don’t bring it in, you’ll wind up waiting another week or so, and I know how you feel about waiting. So… you know. Bring it on in.”
That man seriously needed to brush up his phone skills, that was for sure. Demo couldn’t have sounded less interested in me, or my business, and I didn’t imagine he’d given our little “moment”
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