Page 33 of Accidental Blind Date

Libby squints until I become visible in the streetlight. “Dax?” All the panic drains from her.

“Yeah. So put the knife down,” I say sarcastically and she glares at me, lowering her keys to her side.

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

“Same thing as you. I was having a drink with a friend. Your brother actually. Though from the looks of it, I’ve had a lot less than you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Is that a tomato plant?”

Libby looks down at it, almost as if she forgot it was there. “It is. And it’s not going to die! Mark my words.”

“Consider them marked. Also, you’re not driving.”

Her eyes fill with fire as she snaps her attention up to me. “Says who?”

“Me. You’re far too intoxicated to get behind the wheel, Libby.”

“You’re not my boss. It’s after hours.”

“You may be right. But you’re also drunk, and I can’t with good conscience let you get in that car.”

“Oh really?” she slurs. “And what are YOU going to do about it? Huh?”

She’s almost cute. Okay fine…sheiscute. The way she flips her hair out of her face with her somewhat free hand, only to have it fall back into her face again. The way she pops a very curvy hip to the side to emphasize her sass. The way she is actually holding a tomato plant in the middle of the night with still no explanation.

I reach for her keys, but she yanks her arm back, narrowing her eyes with a smirk. “Nice try, hot shot.”

Then, Libby proceeds to shove them down the front of her shirt into her bra. “You want them, come get them.”

Challenge accepted.

Libby looks utterly shocked as I take one step forward, closing the space between us and pull her against me. With the other hand, I reach into her shirt, locking my fingers around the keys. Accidentally–maybe– my fingertips graze her breast as I pull my hand out, making one of her nipples instantly hard. Libby lets out a gasp at the contact.

I toss the keys up in the air, catch them and shove them in the pocket of my slacks. “Nice try,” I parrot, and Libby gives me the dirtiest look she can muster.

A few moments later, we are in her car, me the driver and her the passenger princess. She still has the plant on her lap.

“So,” I say casually. “What’s with the tomatoes?”

“Bingo,” she answers with more venom in her tone than a rattle snake.

“I’m sorry?”

“I won it playing bingo with my friend Joni,” she snaps.

“Odd prize.”

“It was a plant shop. All the prizes are plants.”

“And you chose a tomato?”

“Turn left here,” she snaps, and I get in the left lane, turning on my blinker at the light.

“Your car is nice,” I say. It’s a Mazda Miata. “I didn’t know they made these anymore.”

“Can we cut the small chat? I know you don’t want to be here. And I’m humiliated. I would have rather called an Uber.”