Page 11 of Badd Baby

He just grinned. "So, moving on. I can make a couple calls and see what I can come up with."

"That would be amazing," I said. "I know it's a long shot, but Hamish and Raquel are desperate for a solution at this point."

“No promises, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back in a bit," he said.

We said goodbye, and I headed back to my room at the hostel. An hour and a half later, he called back.

"I have news," he said by way of hello, "but I'll only give it to you in person. Meet me for lunch."

"Alright," I answered. "Where and when?"

"Now. I'm outside your hostel. Come down."

"Are you stalking me, Duncan Badd?"

He snorted. "You told me where you were staying yesterday. I can do this cool thing called remembering."

There aren't that many people who can match my snark-itude, but Duncan definitely gives me a run for my money.

It's so weird to be on the receiving end of sarcasm that I found myself unable to come up with a witty retort. I am ashamed.

"Be right down," is all I said, and hung up.

I grabbed my purse and headed down—Duncan was dressed in faded, distressed black jeans, white Nikes, and a fitted three-quarter sleeve raglan tee with the Badd Kitty logo on the left breast—the sleeves were gray, the torso black. It was a simple enough outfit, but he made it look like high fashion.

He's just so damned attractive. It's honestly annoying, because being around him is distracting. I keep getting lost in his eyes, or staring at his stupid, toned, girthy arms. Yes, I said girthy. Deal with it.

And now, thanks to our conversation, I know what he looks like naked…almost. And I've thought about him going down on me.

Not a great combo for staying focused.

Although, to be fair to myself, I'm not the only one. His eyes flared when he saw me, his gaze raking down my body, fixing on my legs, which my canary-yellow-with-white-flowers sundress left bare from mid-thigh. After a long, blatant moment checking out my legs, his gaze fixed next on my cleavage, and that's where this dress really shines. It gives me fantastic cleavage, especially with the pushup bra I'm wearing. His pupils dilated, and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Hey, Duncan," I said, stepping into his space and tapping the underside of his chin. "My eyes are up here."

"Yeah,” he said, smirking, “but your tits are down there, and I'm not done appreciating them."

I faked an annoyed sigh, stepping back with a flap of my arms out to the sides and then down. "Well? Get a good enough look?"

He shrugged. "For now."

"You said you had an update."

"I did—I do. C'mon. I'm hungry." He took my hand and pulled me into a walk.

And in weird news, I continued to let him hold my hand as we strolled down the street. It's weird because I don't hold hands. I’ve never liked it. My hands get sweaty, and most guys tend to unconsciously squeeze too hard. Duncan's hands were large and strong and rough, yet dry and cool. And he didn’t squeeze, only held in a gentle but firm grip.

It was…nice.

Weird, but nice.

He led me away from the main drag and the boardwalk where the crowds of tourists are thickest. He took me to a narrow side street not far from the main drag where the shops were mostly tattoo parlors, Mom-and-Pop cafes, boutiques, and the like. We came to a shop with a large window framing a two-seat high top. A cute sign, hand-painted in pastel pink letters on a piece of driftwood, announces that the shop was named Ella's. Duncan opened the door—a bell tinkled a merry, silver little sound to announce our entry. Inside, the floor was tiled in a classic black-and-white checkerboard pattern, with 50s style booths along the left wall and a soda-jerk bar facing the door, with plump vinyl-topped cushioned stools.

A blond girl about our age was behind the counter, rapidly assembling a sandwich. "Be right with you," she says, not looking up from her work.

"The service here sucks ass," Duncan said loudly. "The owner is a real bitch."

I gasped in shock. "Duncan!"