When I opened the door, I was already flushed from the wine I’d been sipping. He stood there in that stupid uniform polo, broad shoulders stretching the fabric, pizza box balanced in one hand, receipt and pen in the other.
“That’ll be twenty-three seventy,” he said.
I handed him the bills, but when I dug through my wallet for singles, my stomach dropped. “s**t. I don’t have anything left for a tip.”
He smirked, eyes dragging over my bare legs, thin tank, no bra. His gaze stayed so long on my n*****s I crossed my arms, but it only made his grin wider.
“No tip, huh?” he drawled. “Kinda rude.”
“I—I’ll make it up to you next time,” I muttered, embarrassed.
He leaned one arm against the doorframe, close enough I smelled his cologne. “Or…” his eyes dropped lower, to where my thighs pressed
