Spectacular Rascal: A Sexy Flirty Dirty Standalone Romance by Lili Valente Read Free Book Online Page A

my watch, kid.
     
     
    Dear Curve,
    Several things:
    One: I am not a kid. I am two years younger than you and I’m going to be able to buy my own beer in less than a year so you should respect my near full adultness.
    Two: I am not a super-solider sleeper spy. (Or maybe that’s just what I have to say to preserve my cover. Boom. Just blew your mind.)
    Three: I’m not sure it’s kosher to exchange numbers. Aren’t we supposed to respect the sanctity of the hole? It’s right there in the rulebook: all Dasher communications outside of running hours shall be conducted via notes stuffed in the Union Soldier statue’s secret hole. Respect the hole.
    Four: I am not cute or adorable, but it’s cute and adorable that you think I am. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that beneath your tough, take-no-prisoners façade you’re basically composed of raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and old lady face lotion.
    Respecting the hole and not giving you my digits—but if you want to give me yours, I might make use of them.
    Someday.
    If you’re lucky.
    Adorably yours,
    Panties
     
     
    Dear Panties,
    Why old lady face lotion? I have to know…
    C, aka Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens
    555-3476
     
    Text from Panties to Curve: My number is blocked so hard you’ll never figure out my digits so don’t even try, but this is Panties.
     
    Curve: So are you really a spy? Or in the witness protection program?
    Or a former drug lord posing as an innocent co-ed while you hide out from a rival cartel and plot their downfall?
    That would explain a lot of things about you, Panties.
     
    Panties: Lol! Like what? I don’t do drugs. If I did, my dad would kill me and then resurrect me through dark magic just to kill me all over again.
    I don’t even drink anything harder than light beer.
     
    Curve: Yes, but for a skinny person, you can drink an insane amount of light beer without getting fucked up.
    But you’re right. You’re not the drug lord type.
    I’m sticking with spy. When the feds come sniffing around and suddenly you’re nowhere to be found, I won’t be surprised.
     
    Panties: Don’t be silly. If I’m spying for anyone, it’s Uncle Sam. I’m a patriot. I bleed red, white, and blue.
    Now, do you want to know why you’re made of old lady face lotion, or not?
     
    Curve: Yes. Desperately. Do tell.
    Raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens felt right, but I didn’t know what I did to deserve to be composed of one-third stank-ass face cream.
     
    Panties: I didn’t mean the stinky kind. I meant the nice kind that smells like cucumbers and sea salt. Like my gram used to wear.
    I lived with her when I was little. She was very cool and fun and let me have cookies every day after school. So, to me, the smell of old lady face lotion is the smell of a safe, fun place where there are cookies.
    So…there you go…
     
    Curve: Wow…
    That’s sweet, Panties. Thank you.
    I’m glad that the club is a safe, cookie kind of place for you.
     
    Panties: Yeah, well. Whatever.
    Don’t take any of that too seriously.
    I’ve had four beers and my roommate is watching Sense and Sensibility and Colonel Brandon just confessed his soldier love to Marianne. The combo is making me uncharacteristically sentimental.
     
    Curve: Sometimes I wonder if you drink too much, Red. And if it’s our fault for supplying you with beer when you were a freshman.
     
    Panties: Nah. I drank before I came to college.
    It’s the way I deal with the flashbacks after Kathmandu.
     
    Curve: Sometimes I’m not sure when you’re kidding.
     
    Panties: And that’s the way I like it. ;)
    Sweet dreams, C.
     
    Curve: Sleep tight, Panties. Don’t let the crazy bugs bite.
     
    Panties: Too late.
     
    Curve: For you and me both, kid.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER NINE
     
    I want to slam my fist into the hood of Nico the Psycho’s car and shout after him that it will be a cold day in hell when he lays a hand on Red again. Instead, I