Hot Jerk (Alphalicious Billionaires Book 12)

by Lindsey Hart

  “Does this count as date two?”

  “No. No, it does NOT count. That should be abundantly clear.” I then pull out all the stops because I’m obviously seriously mature. “If you don’t show up, I’ll–I’ll–I’ll call your mom and tell her about all of this.” I hit the end call button and slam the phone down like it’s a retro model, and Cliff can hear the satisfying smack.

  Yeah, I really just went off there.

  I finally give in to the urge to slam my head down on the tabletop. Gently. Gently. Maybe if I don’t knock myself unconscious, I can still fix this. It’s only a grain of hope, glistening off in the distance like a dying star, but I clutch at it like someone… well, like someone who is about to lose her job and is seriously and ridiculously desperate.

  CHAPTER 5

  Cliff

  A dry run. A. Dry. Run. Who does a dry run at life?

  I’d reject the idea completely and tell this self-assured lady to take a hike straight up somewhere like a porcupine’s ass, since I’m sure that can’t be pleasant, but unfortunately, I care about my job. I do care about what my parents think, too, at least to a certain extent as all kids do. But it’s more about the company than anything.

  I’ve worked there for ten years. It’s a family business, and I’m proud of it. I’m good at it. I like what I do. And it’s not about the money. It’s about doing something I can be proud of, something that has the Marshall last name attached to it. Losing my job would mean losing not just my livelihood and my source of income. Losing my part in the company would be like losing my left hand.

  So, I’m here. Sitting across from a very nicely done up Rowan, at a solid two-star restaurant all the way across the city from the old brick apartment building she calls home. I should have known she’d live in something vintage. It suits her red dress, red heels, black sweater, hair pulled back into a red headband, nineteen-fifties style kind of vibe she has going on right now.

  I’m uncomfortable, and I fidget with the menu. She picked—no surprise here—an actual fifties-style diner complete with red and chrome tables, red stools at the front counter, and freaking pie sitting next to the cash register. There’s the token jukebox in the corner, records and old photos all over the walls—the whole clichéd diner deal. It’s not my vibe, but I don’t say anything about it.

  I haven’t read the menu, but I’m willing to bet the go-to here is a burger and fries deal, so I’ll go with that.

  When Rowan sets her menu down and looks at me with those long sweeping eyelashes and the red lipstick she has on to match the rest of her cherry-red outfit, something strange happens to my chest. Something happens to my nuts, too, which closely resemble getting trapped in my jeans that are suddenly two sizes too tight in the crotch area, but I ignore it and shift under the table to try and fix the restriction.

  “So. This dry run—how’s it going so far for you?” I ask her mockingly, but of course, I have to admit I care just a little. Just for business reasons, of course.

  Rowan pushes her menu to the edge of the table and purses her lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I guess I’d say it was fairly creepy if I’m honest.”

  That feels like a kick straight to the nuts. “Creepy?” I barely struggle to keep the annoyance from my voice. “Creepy in what way?”

  “Well, when you picked me up, you texted me that you were there, but you sat in the car the entire time. You made me find you—”

  “I was parked directly in front of the building.”

  “The building has three streets that border it, an alley, and a parking lot. It would have been nice for you to get out and stand by the door or even ring the buzzer.”

  “Well, maybe that’s just your preference. Maybe the next person would prefer if I don’t harass them at the door and that I wait politely in the only car parked for miles in front of the building, running, with the lights on.”

  “You should identify it then. You know. Black car. In front of the door. That kind of thing would be really helpful. It’s embarrassing to have to come out and glance around, walk around, guess…”

  “You seemed to find it just fine. You spotted me immediately.”

  “Honestly, what if it wasn’t you? What if it was someone else waiting to pick someone up? I could have walked right up and knocked on the window or opened the door, and then I would have been the creepy one. It’s not a good start to the date.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t bring flowers and a box of chocolates and fall at your feet to worship your beauty the second you walked out the door.”

  Rowan’s left eye twitches. I can tell she’s pissed, and as this is our second meeting, I’m starting to learn her tells. Know your enemy. I find that it’s served me well in business and life so far. I feel like this date isn’t a good trial for anything, because I don’t normally go into a date ultra pissed at being forced into it. Okay, so maybe this is a good test as far as the rest of these dates are going to go.

  “I’m not saying worship me or bring me things. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” Rowan sighs. “If you are going to be that difficult, then I seriously have my work cut out for me. We might as well just call this whole thing off right now.”

  Panic claws at my throat. I hate that I’m trapped between a rock and an asshole place at the moment, but there’s nothing I can do except endure it.

  A young girl who is probably no more than sixteen—dressed in a bright pink mini dress type thing that looks like a collared shirt stretched down just enough to cover the essentials, and a frilly apron that is completely inappropriate as far as restaurant attire should go—comes to take our order then.

  Rowan orders a club sandwich, salad instead of fries, and a slice of cherry pie to go. I order the burger and fries, which I’m informed, by said waitress, is a good choice. At least I got something right as far as this evening goes.

  Rowan starts in on me again as soon as we’ve placed our orders, and our waitress saunters away. I can hear her yelling the orders in the kitchen a few seconds later, which for some reason, actually makes me smile.

  “The car ride over here was thirty minutes. I chose that for a reason. I wanted to see what you would do with that time. You did nothing.”

  I nearly wince. Jesus. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was a test.” Either this lady seriously hates me, or she’s a real tough ass. Maybe both. “You could have said something to start the conversation off. A normal person on a normal date would.”

  “That’s not necessarily true.” Rowan toys with a strand of hair. I can’t tell if she’s bored or if I’m actually making her nervous. “A lot of people will be too intimidated to make the first move. You might be too—shy or nervous or whatever else—but if the silence is dragging on and getting weird, then you should definitely say something.”

  “Well, the whole thing was a setup and bullshit right from the start. First of all, you told me no personal information was to be given out. I wouldn’t be picking anyone up from their house.”

  “Maybe not, but you picked Amanda up from an arranged public place. That’s pretty much the same thing. We just tell people to keep their private information private to keep everyone safe. That wasn’t needed in this case.”

  “No?” I arch a brow. “How do you know I’m not actually a stalker or something? You did say I was creepy.”

  “Stop.” Rowan picks up her water and takes a sip. She doesn’t lose her composure. She doesn’t even look rattled, but her left eye twitches again. “I’m not getting into that. If you want to stalk me or creep me, you can deal with the law. I’ll take my chances. Anyway, that’s changing the subject, and I’m not going to let you do it. We are talking about you being the one to break the ice after just a few minutes of silence. If you get the conversation going, you’ll be surprised at how pleasant the drive could have been.”

  “You could have said something.”

  “I wanted to see what you would do.”

  “Great. You know, most people don’t act h
ow they normally would when they’re under extreme duress?”

  “You consider this extreme duress? If that’s true, then you need to get out and experience more of life.”

  “This whole thing is a test that you’ve already determined I’m going to fail, no matter what.”

  Rowan sets her hand on the table and taps her short nails against the hard red top. She smiles at me, but her eyes flash with something pretty close to annoyance. For some reason, it’s strangely thrilling that I’ve managed to piss her off, even just a little. She’s beautiful as it is, but I bet she’d be insanely gorgeous when she’s all fired up with righteous dating wrath.

  “That’s not true at all. It isn’t about passing or failing. It’s not a test. If you recall, I said it was a dry run for your future dates. I’m trying to help you succeed. I’m not judging you. I’m trying to provide constructive criticism, which is really just suggestions.” I think Rowan is done, but then she mutters something about entitlement under her breath and takes a gulp of water.

  Yup. She hates me. She thinks I’m just some rich kid with the clichéd silver spoon stuck up my butt—oh wait, I think it’s supposed to be my mouth. Whatever. She can hate me if she wants. She’s clearly pissed that she could lose her job over this, and so far, I’ve done nothing but fuck it up. This isn’t actually about me. It’s about her. I’m about to call her on it too, but she reaches into her tote—which is tucked on the red vinyl bench seat beside her—and pulls out a set of books. She slides them across the table.

  I glance at the three titles dispassionately.

  “Relationship and self-help. As promised,” Rowan announces smugly. “A lot of times, for a relationship to be successful, people need to work on themselves first and foremost.”

  “Uh, says the lady who is single.”

  Surprisingly, Rowan’s cheeks flush. Her hand is still sitting on the table, and I’m struck by the most absurd urge to reach out and caress her fingers with mine, just to see how soft her skin is. I think it would be a little bit like caressing a combination of rose petals and fresh-cut grass. Amazingly soft and silky, and the smell would damn near make me lose my mind.

  “How do you know I’m single?” She challenges, recovering fast.

  “Well, you’re out on a date with me right now.”

  “A fake date, which is not a date at all. I’d like to think of it more like a dress rehearsal or an experiment of sorts.”

  “Good to know I’m your lab rat. Anyway, it’s still going out with a guy. No other guy would think it was okay.”

  “Even if it was for work?”

  “Nope. Not a chance.”

  I think then, about what it would be like if this date was real and Rowan was my girlfriend. I don’t imagine things like how the date would end and if she’d invite me up to her apartment or not. Instead, I think about what it would be like to take her somewhere she hasn’t been before. To watch her eyes light up and her face come alive with wonder at seeing an amazing piece of art or at hearing a touching piece of music. I imagine her laughter, real laughter—the kind that gives you tears in the eyes and makes your abs hurt. I imagine what kind of stores she’d drag me into if she had the chance, and her delight at finding yet another one of the retro dresses she obviously loves.

  I imagine cooking something together, eating it after, doing things—basic life things. I imagine how thrilled my mom would be. She’d love her; I know that. My dad would probably love her, too, because I’m sure Rowan can talk to anyone about anything. It wouldn’t be long before my parents loved her more than they loved me, and that would be just fine.

  I hate imagining stuff like that, and not just because it’s inappropriate. I hate it because all that shit is well and good and might happen, but then the inevitable fallout comes. I imagine us fighting, hurting each other. The ugly parts where the other person takes and takes, and one person tries to fight it and fails. And the one where both parties damage the other beyond repair. Essentially, I imagine failure and the shitty ending, which all relationships have to have because shit just doesn’t work out anymore, and people are usually too selfish and shitty to put in the time and effort and care.

  I swallow hard and slide the books off the table. I set them on the seat beside me. “Great. Thanks.” I force a smile, but I can tell Rowan’s not buying it.

  “I don’t have to currently be in a relationship to be good at my job,” she informs me. It’s not snarky or biting. She’s just talking now. “I’ve been doing this for a while now, and I am pretty good at helping people. At least, so my track record says. I’m trying to give you the resources to succeed. And no, it’s not just because I want to keep my job.”

  “Why would you lose your job?”

  She fidgets uncomfortably. “Uh, well, my boss can be a bit of a jerk sometimes, and he basically said that if you or your mom isn’t happy with the results of this, then I’m done.”

  “That’s quite harsh.”

  “Yes, the company charges quite a bit for their services, and we like to have a good track record. I’ve had a few of my clients who were unhappy this past year, and I guess my boss figured it was enough. I’m sure he’d fire other people too if they weren’t bringing money in.”

  “So, if someone isn’t happy with the services, they get a refund?”

  “Not exactly. Okay, so they don’t, but it’s bad publicity because they’ll tell everyone how unsatisfied they were. Anyway, I shouldn’t have told you about maybe losing my job. It doesn’t really matter. I’m pulling out all the stops on this one because you’re one of the first clients I’ve had who actively doesn’t want to succeed, and I think you need to change your mind about all of this.”

  “This? This process or about dating and relationships in general?”

  “Everything.” Rowan gives me a mysterious smile that I spend a few minutes trying to decode.

  I realize the smile is because she noted that the kitchen, which is to my back, has our food ready, and she saw our waitress coming. She digs in as soon as her plate is set in front of her. I can’t help but watch her discreetly while she’s eating.

  This. Woman. There is something about her that is just… refreshing. She maintains eye contact. She speaks her mind, but without being rude or mean. She actually wants me to succeed—I can see that now. It’s genuine. It’s not just about her keeping her job, although I’m sure that’s a huge motivating factor too. Knowing all of this makes me feel just a little bit softer where she’s concerned. I guess we’re in this together. We could both lose our jobs if this doesn’t work out.

  Rowan is decidedly herself, and that’s refreshing too. She has her own style. She’s not afraid to be who she is. She’s confident. Classy. And she has no problem devouring a monster-sized sandwich with complete and utter abandon right in front of me.

  I wouldn’t be lying if I said that something about Rowan makes me want to believe that happiness and even love are possible with another person. Whatever. It’s not like I’m ever going to do anything about those thoughts, because thoughts are often irrational, and I know they don’t dwell in reality.

  I have a thousand things I can think of to say, and out of the thousand, only a few are appropriate, but I don’t let even those few out. Instead, I lapse into silence, wondering if this is comfortable silence or if I’m going to be accused of being creepy again.

  CHAPTER 6

  Rowan

  I have to admit; tonight wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. We ate, made tolerable small talk after, and left. He offered to pay. I offered to split the bill. And he agreed quite diplomatically without a huge fight going down.

  Now we’re in his car again, and I’m glancing at his hands, which are gripping the wheel. He has a black dress shirt on with the sleeves rolled up, and I have to admit I’m a sucker for male forearms. I’m not sure, but to me, it’s a sexy part of the male anatomy. I know a few people might disagree with me on that, but whatever. Disagree if you like. The fact still remains th
at forearms are pretty much my biggest turn on. I love the way the muscles are shaped there, the crisp dark hairs, the striated veins that run over the surface. I love the play of tendons, skin, bone, and muscle, as it reaches the hand. It turns out Cliff has really nice hands too, especially for a guy who works in an office.

  His fingers look like they’d have the rasp of roughness on their tips, and the palms would have just a few callouses, though I can’t say what from. I know his family’s company deals with gardening. I like to imagine him out doing yard work, but then my thoughts change, and suddenly, I’m thinking about him running his slightly rough hands over my arms. And a few other places.

  I don’t know why I’m having thoughts like that, but it’s clear the rest of my body likes them, and I don’t like that. I realize the car is utterly silent. I’m doing my best to try and think of a way to encourage Cliff to break the silence with conversation before another long, awkward stretch of nothingness ensues all the way home, but I come up empty.

  As it turns out, something else distracts us completely.

  One minute we’re driving down the street, zipping along, passing other vehicles, the next, the car is coughing, gagging, sputtering, lurching, doing other alarming things. I crank my head around to stare at Cliff in horror, but he just calmly, with a look of resigned I’m in deep shit now, guides the car over to the side of the road. He puts it in park in front of a business that’s shut down for the night, but he doesn’t have to kill the ignition. The car stops running before he even gets a chance.

  “What the heck? First, you run out of gas, and now you’re having car problems? Is this to prove to me that you didn’t actually plan what happened with Amanda?”

  I’m ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, and yeah, humble pie sucks, but I’ll eat it if I have to, but then Cliff turns to me, and he has this look on his face, and I just know. A mixture of shock and horror fill up my chest. No. No way. This cannot be real.