Apparently Romy did, because when Mitchell stood up again to pocket the quarter, the man was right behind him, hands on Mitchell’s hips, voice soft as it curled into Mitchell’s ear. “You almost ready?”
“Almost.” Mitchell side-stepped easily out of Romy’s reach. One hand trailed over his ass, catching in the back pocket of his jeans and giving a playful tug before it fell away.
Was it so bad they had just met? Mitchell didn’t think so, and he couldn’t wait to lock the doors behind them and lead the way to his car. Maybe on the way home—whose home, he wondered, mine or his?—maybe he’d let his hand drift to Romy’s knee. He could imagine the warm denim beneath his palm. Maybe Romy would curl his fingers into Mitchell’s, and maybe they’d make it as far as the bedroom before they gave into thi
