The Biker and the Loner (Oil and Water #3)- S. Ann Cole Page 0,5

I’m doing. Holy shit. Why on earth did I just give that to him? Am I stupid? Is this what sex does to the brain? Make you do dumb stuff? That’s my father’s necklace. What possessed me to give it to him?

Realizing my ginormously stupid error, I shoot my hand out to grab the dangling necklace from his fingers, but he’s quicker than me. He jerks his hand out of reach and quickly locks the necklace tight in his fist.

He straightens and grins down at me with a wicked gleam. “If this ‘protection charm’ is as good as you say it is, then I’ll see you when I get back, sweet thing.”

He chucks my chin with his fist, and then he’s gone.

With my father’s necklace.

What the hell did I just do?

Chapter 2

Ley

Five years later

“Sorry, I'm married.” I wiggle my fingers to indicate the faux wedding band.

“O-Oh, I didn't see that.” The customer’s face falls with disappointment. “Well, um…have a nice day, beautiful.”

Works every time.

About a month after I started this cashier job at Tipsy Scoop, a fake wedding band became a part of my uniform. To date, it’s my most effective strategy for staving off the overwhelming amount of unwanted male attention I get here.

This might come off as a brag but, really, it’s annoying and borders on harassment.

Worst of all, it’s essentially ostracized me from my female coworkers. I don't ask for it, and I honest to God don't need it, but I do get a lot more attention from the male customers. There are several regulars who I’m convinced walk through those doors for the sole purpose of hitting on me. I mean, come on, this is a wine cream shop. Wine cream. Wine and ice-cream. I find it hard to believe these men love wine that much. And my coworkers despise me for it.

None of them talk to me unless necessary. Save for Toni, because, of course, she’s my boss. Not that it bothers me—I’m a loner. It’s not uncommon for a customer to lean over the counter and whisper to me that my co-workers were gossiping about me.

I think I’m all that.

I’m sleeping with the boss’s man.

I’m a Den of Heathen’s club mattress.

I have herpes.

I would smile and apologize to the customer and tell them I hope it didn’t ruin their experience. To which they would return a smile along with some encouraging words like “keep your head up” and leave me a big tip.

I know I'm pretty and sexy or whatever, but I'm not the only pretty and sexy woman in the world, am I? Cheyenne, one of the three female servers, is drop-dead gorgeous and has the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. But I’ve learned long ago that it’s not about me, but about them. Their self-esteem and insecurities. Where I used to believe something was wrong with me, I came to understand that I’m not the problem, they are. Confident women don’t behave like that.

Aside from Kendra, I have zero female friends. For whatever reason, women are intimidated by me. They usually fake-friend me with meaningless words and feigned smiles, then try to sabotage or hurt me. As a result, I no longer make efforts to befriend women.

Kendra told me once that if I wanted female friends who wouldn’t secretly hate me, then I should look for the vain, conceited ones, the selfish, narcissistic ones, the all-about-me ones. Because those women are too busy being obsessed with themselves to care. Better to have a friend who believes she’s better than you than one who believes you’re better than her, she’d told me.

Weird logic, but it’s probably true.

“Gosh, you're really pretty,” a preppy, blue-eyed guy with a sharp jawline tells me as I’m processing his purchase.

“Thanks.” I offer a polite smile. “Will that be all?”

His lips curve upward in a suggestive smile. “Yes. But I’d take your number, too, if it’s on the menu…?”

For the umpteenth time today, I hold up my hand and wiggle my fingers. “It’s not, sorry. I’m married.”

He shrugs. “That doesn’t bother me. I’ll take whatever parts you’re willing to give me.”

“Only if you’re willing to die for me.” I jerk my chin to the plexiglass where a cohort of Den of Heathens bikers can be seen loitering outside the shop. “My husband’s a biker.”

His head swivels to look outside at the big, brawny, intimidating jeans and leather-clad men. Then he looks at me again and gulps. “Oh, um...well, have a great day then.” As if to make