Better Than You (The Walker Family Series Book 3) Read Online Free

tempting as that was, I’m seeing someone.”
    “So?”
    With a sigh, Delta started walking, moving between the racks and racks of hanging clothes to the wide, reflective tile aisle that ran a loop around the store. She had long legs, but his were longer, and he kept up easily, feeling a bit like a creep for chasing her. He shoved it aside, though, passed her in two strides and pivoted around to block her path.
    She stamped her foot as she pulled up just short of colliding with him: a quick rap of her heel s against the tile. Her slender hands curled to fists at her sides and some of the ice melted off her face, leaving her flushed and angry. “What?” she snapped.
    “One last thing and then I swear I’ll leave you alone.” Heavily resigned that this was a challenge he couldn’t win, Mike pulled one of his business cards out of his shirt pocket and held it out to her between his index and middle fingers. “My cell number’s on there if you decide you don’t hate me.”
    She glared at him, mouth drawn up.
    “It’s not every day I run into smokin’ hot store managers. I had to try.”
    Her coffee-colored eyes traced over his face one long, truly terrifying moment , lovely as a Renaissance painting even while murderous. A sigh flared her delicate nostrils and she snatched the card out of his hand. “I won’t call you,” she said as she slipped it into the tiny front pocket of her skirt.
    But Mike beamed. She’d taken it, and that was promising. “Okay,” he said, and left her to stare a hole through his back, his card in her pocket.
     
    **
     
    “Is your steak overcooked? You’ve hardly touched it.”
    “No.” Delta offered a smile across the candlelight that danced between them on the table. “It’s fine.”
    And it was fine…for someone who liked steak. Delta avoided thick slabs of red meat because they always sat heavy and unhappy on her stomach. She always opted for chicken or fish instead, and despite three months of semi-serious dating and countless dinners, Greg had taken it upon himself to order her meal for her. And he’d ordered steak. Bloody steak.
    Satisfied with her answer, Greg cut into his own filet mignon again, eyes dropping to his plate. “Did I tell you who I ran into in LA? Do you remember Martin Jeffries? We had dinner with him and his wife.”
    “I remember,” she said and hated the hollow sound to her voice.
    Greg, of course, didn’t notice, and launched into a story about a conversation he’d had with whoever the hell Martin Jeffries was over Scotch in a hotel lounge. Delta pushed her food around on her plate and tried to enjoy the muted light, soft strains of music and general romance of the ambiance around her. It was no use.
    Greg Peterson was exactly the sort of man she’d always wanted. Thirty-five, worldly, successful and sophisticated, he was brunette and built trim, with the chiseled features and narrow eyes of a romance novel poster boy. A corporate attorney, he had expensive taste in everything, a gay man’s flare for fashion, and a habit of bringing her unexpected gifts. They were perfect complements.
    Except he was fast, selfish and oblivious in bed.
    And she would rather watch paint dry than listen to him talk.
    And the way he ordered food for her made her want to reach across the table and stab her fork through his hand.
    And she couldn’t remember ever laughing, ever , in his presence.
    But other than that, yeah, they were destined for the altar.
    Delta hid bits of steak in her napkin to thwart any further comments. She drank too much wine and fought the urge to grab at Greg’s jacket sleeve while they waited for the valet to bring the car around. She rolled down the passenger window in his Jag and let the cool November air slap her sober, one ear cocked to whatever Greg was prattling on about, murmuring agreements when necessary.
    She blamed it on the M erlot and her empty stomach, but as they flashed through warm puddles of light thrown down onto the