Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk #3) - Samantha Young Page 0,1

the reason for that hot, tingly feeling.

He grinned when our eyes met and wowzer. Okay, speaking of hot, tingly feelings.

I jerked my gaze away, flushing as his crooked, boyish smile flittered across my vision.

I got a distinct impression of broad shoulders and a narrow waist in the plain navy T-shirt he wore.

Thoughts off the hottie, Dahlia, I grumbled to myself. I had a job to do—and a boyfriend.

A boyfriend who knew his way around my clit.

I wouldn’t jeopardize that for anything!

However, as I tried to remain as still as possible, I could feel the guy staring.

And staring.

And more staring.

He couldn’t be. It had to be my imagination.

Ah, screw it. I snuck a peek and stiffened when I saw he was not only watching me, he’d moved closer.

This time I stared back.

Gary was taller but leaner, had dark hair with lovely blue eyes, and visible tattoos. He was from Southie but looked like a pretty-boy rock star.

This guy was rougher around the edges with his dark-blond hair and dark eyes. His face was hard hewn and at total odds with his beautifully shaped mouth.

He smirked as I looked my fill.

I narrowed my eyes.

This guy was not here for the art.

Perv!

Forgetting my job for a second, I grimaced, which seemed to amuse him.

Huffing inwardly, I decided the best thing to do was ignore the hot guy who came for a peep show. That negated the hotness. It really did.

There were other girls here.

Go peep at them!

To be fair, he only seemed to ogle my face … but I knew when I wasn’t looking, like now, he was studying me elsewhere.

That wasn’t flattering. It was creepy and annoying.

I’m a living piece of art, dipshit, not window dressing in Amsterdam!

Oh, who was I kidding? Even the so-called “art enthusiasts” had come here to see the almost naked people. That’s why the gallery did it.

Still, at least everyone else pretended to be interested in the art.

Growing increasingly irritated—and I didn’t know if it was because my heart was inexplicably racing at his intense staring—I returned my attention to Mr. Hottie with the staring problem.

Yup. Still there. Still looking at me.

And now in this seriously smokin’ smoldering way that made more than my heart beat fast. I felt a flip low in my belly as our eyes connected and shock floored me at the consequent heat between my legs.

What the hell!

Horrified that a stranger had elicited that kind of reaction in me (I mean, what was that?), I decided it was time to move and make a point. I raised my arm slowly, gracefully, as I bent my opposing knee and as I brought my arm upwards, I watched the stranger’s eyes flare with heat.

Shit.

Perv.

Bringing my hand up to my face, I curled it into a fist, except for my middle finger, which caressed my cheek with a pointed “fuck you” glare.

And what was his reaction to the sight of me flipping him off?

He threw his head back in laughter, drawing attention from everyone else. I lowered my hand in case my boss saw me flipping off a customer.

Dark eyes glittering, the stranger’s laughter trailed off, and he gave me a weirdly affectionate smile before he turned and walked away. He disappeared around the corner, and I deflated with relief.

Or was that disappointment?

An hour later, I walked out of the small closet they’d given us to change in, wearing my own clothes and wishing for the money to get a massage. My back was all kinds of stiff from standing on my feet for four hours with only two fifteen minute breaks in between.

Later that night I had my first shift as a waitress in a bar in Malden, the neighboring town to my own, Everett. It was my sister Davina’s old job, and when the college bar I’d been working at told me they were cutting my hours, I jumped ship. The pay was crappy, but you did what you had to do, am I right?

I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear as I passed a mirror in the back of the gallery. The gallery wanted our faces scrubbed clean except for mascara on the girls, so I looked very young. And boring. I’d been in my Dita Von Teese phase now for three years and loved vintage clothing, black-winged eyeliner, and red lips. Taking a quick glance at my makeup-free face, I decided I needed bangs. Bangs would look hot. Very vintage.

Altogether I wasn’t my usual cute self as I walked out