There he was, saying the right thing again. It was like the grin he did. He didn’t have to force it, or fake it.
“It was really nice of you to go to the movie with me. Thank you.” “I had fun,” he said with a wink. “Even if you hated the movie.”
“It was worth it,” he said, taking a step so they were now close enough to touch. “Because you were there.”
Her pulse kicked up. Her chest tightened with anticipation. “You are the worst flirt in the world, Frank Hartigan.”
He gave her the grin. “It’s not flirting if you mean it.”
“Then what is it?” she asked before she could stop herself.
It was as if her brain was sending out one last SOS signal. A warning to get the hell out of there before her body won out over common sense. A million answers to that single question flew across his face in quick succession, even as he didn’t utter a word. Frank was like that sometimes. Like that whole airhead, hot jock persona he’d had since high school was just that—a front.
Of course, she was probably just feeling the after effects of getting four Harlequins a month delivered to her door. The men of Waterbury were who they were. They weren’t adventurers. They weren’t the kind of guys to make over the top, grand gestures. They didn’t promise multiple orgasms, and then deliver. They were just the guys next door. It was mental to even think that Frank Hartigan could be more than the cocky ladies’ man everyone in town knew him to be.
Was it though?
Like, really?
Yeah, yeah it was—and that was some freaky shit right there. The last thing in this world that she needed to do was to start thinking of Frank as anything more than just the hot guy at her dad’s firehouse. Yeah, she’d already fucked up her plans. She didn’t need to make it worse by falling for Waterbury’s biggest player.
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Airhead: A Hartigans Totally ’80s Hot RomCom
The night in 1982 that changed everything…
There is no way I can resist avenging my sister’s broken heart by filling her cheating boyfriend’s bitchin’ DeLorean with extra buttered movie popcorn, a half-melted Snickers, and the contents of one shaken can of Tab.
There’s only one six-foot-six-inch problem. It’s not The Creep’s car. It’s Frank “The Airhead” Hartigan’s. Now he wants me to drive him to Harbor City to make up for trashing his ride.
On the outside, I’m all gag me with a spoon, but on the inside? Yeah, not so much. The truth is I haven’t stopped thinking about him since that night at Marino’s Bar when he rocked my world to the max—something that can’t happen again.
Frank Hartigan isn’t a guy you fall for if you want to keep your heart in one piece. Waterbury is littered with the broken hearts of the women who forgot that, and I am not about to join their ranks.
Fine. I’ll drive him around town, but that’s it.
No kisses.
No getting hot and bothered.
No toe-curling anything.
And no matter what happens tonight, my heart—and my panties—will for sure remain untouched.
