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Project Produce(71)

By:Kari Lee Harmon


Duhhhhhh!

I smiled the sexiest smile I knew how and stared into his eyes as though he were a god. Then I glanced at Dylan and caught him glaring at Beefcake’s hand as it hovered an inch above my bumps. He set his jaw. Guess the overall effect of Gloria’s hot tamale dress worked well enough, judging by the look on Hot Britches’ face.

I sat up straighter, giving Beefcake an eyeful. Forget an eyeful, his fingertips touched the swell of one bump, nearly giving him a handful. I slid lower and heard Dylan grinding his teeth clear across the table.

Beefcake shrugged and dropped his arm. “Let’s order, man.” He picked up the menu. When I could no longer stand his struggle with the entrée terms, I snatched it and read it for him. After we placed our orders, he leaned over to whisper loudly in my ear, “I’m hungry.”

I gave him a sultry look and offered up my neck, even though his hot breath smelled of cigarette smoke and turned my stomach. When he sat there like a knot on a log, I fumed, until he finally blinked, then leaned over to nuzzle my skin.

I giggled, feeling like a twit.

“Don’t they make a cute couple?” Bombshell asked Dylan, snuggling up to him.

“Yeah, cute.” He smirked at me as he clenched and unclenched his fists, completely ignoring Bombshell’s caresses.

The waiter showed up with our food just in time, and the aroma of steak and buttered baked potatoes filled the air. I ordered pasta and my mouth watered, already tasting the red sauce full of spices, though I hadn’t even taken a bite. Dylan cut into his steak, sawing furiously as Beefcake caressed my hand and kissed my cheek.

Bombshell looked from Dylan to me, back to Dylan, back to me, back to Dylan... back to me... and finally gasped, her mouth falling open wide.

I repeat--duhhhhhh!

She dropped her hand and ate her salad with a pathetic pout plastered across her plastic face.

Dylan jammed another bite of steak into his mouth, chewing longer than necessary. His hand halted halfway, a piece of steak dangling from his fork as he stared hard at Beefcake’s face. He narrowed his eyes, studying him closer.

God, what if Dylan recognized him? I eyed my nearly-full plate with regret, downed the rest of my Bahama Mama, and said, “Well, it’s been fun, but we should be going. We’ve got plans, don’t we, lover?”

Dylan choked.

I jumped up, knocking my chair over, and flew around the table in record time, then whacked him a good one between the shoulder blades. I lifted my hand for a second blow, but he caught my wrist mid-swing.

“Thanks,” he said, probing my eyes as he released my arm. “I’m fine now.”

I shrugged. “Anytime. Trust me, it was my pleasure.”

He smirked. “I’m sure it was.”

Lifting my chin a notch, I marched around to my side of the table and hooked my arm through Beefcake’s to pull him to his feet, since he seemed more interested in his dinner than me. I elbowed him in the side.

“R-Right, uh, lover. Where is it we’re going again?”

Rolling my eyes, I whispered in his ear.

“Yeah, that’s right, The Bump and Grind.” A leer of Cro-Magnon delight spread across Beefcake’s face. I’d chosen a hot new night club, counting on Hot Britches not letting me go it alone with good ole Bart.

“Great, we’ll join you. Won’t we, Penelope? You love to dance,” Dylan said, not disappointing me.

“But, snuggle bunny, I’m not finished,” she whined.

“Yeah, I’m not finished, either,” Beefcake seconded.

“So get a doggie bag.” Dylan grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, then met my eyes with a challenge.

“Yeah, get a doggie bag,” I echoed to my date, my eyes never leaving Dylan’s. I grinned.

Dylan grinned back.

Ding. Ding. Let round three begin.

***

Note to self: Never date an eggplant. They’re clueless.

I didn’t know anything bigger than a zucchini existed, but Bart had to be an eggplant. He wasn’t cocky like a pickle, comfortable like a cucumber, or confident like a zucchini. He was a beast of a man and absolutely clueless.

I strolled along behind him through the crowded night club, trying not to have my arm yanked out of its socket. The music blared so loud, the bass boomed in my feet like the pulse of a heart. I gripped his hand and tried to swing my hips, knowing Dylan followed close on my heels. Not an easy task, since Beefcake galloped onto the dance floor through the multitude of colorful flashing lights.

“Come on. Let’s dance.” He dragged me behind him, ruining my hip swagger, then tossed me about in his attempt to dance. I half expected to be clubbed later and dragged off to his cave.

Why had I worn two-inch heels? Because I’d wanted to be on equal footing with Hot Britches, that’s why. When Beefcake came to a jarring stop, I bounced off his back. “Oomph!”