“If that’s what they were after, it’d be a losing cause.”
“Why’s that?”
I tap my chest. “Single as the day is long.”
He regards me quizzically. “Does that mean you’re single and have a parade of ladies at your door every night?”
“No way. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But that’s not my style. Besides, I’ve been pretty damn busy with work and taking care of my nieces and nephew.”
“That’s good of you to help out with them.”
“I love those rug rats. Molly, Devon, and Travis are fucking awesome. And my sister’s the best. We were always close, but after our parents died a few years ago, we’ve been even tighter.”
“Sorry to hear about your parents.”
“Thanks, but honestly, it wasn’t a big surprise. They were in their late seventies. They were older when they had us. My mom was forty-one when Jodie was born and forty-six when I surprised them both.”
“Damn, that’s impressive.”
“It is, but I still won’t be imitating them. I don’t plan on procreating any time soon.”
“I will definitely drink to that,” Shaw says, and we tip our glasses.
“To keeping it wrapped up.”
He’s quiet for a minute, like he’s thinking of something. I’m not one to break the silence, especially since a ball game is on and the bases are loaded. When the batter flies out, Shaw returns to the conversation. “Think you’re going to take any of those ladies from your sister’s booth up on their offers to”—he sketches air quotes—“help?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Nah, I’m not interested in dating right now either.”
“I hear you. Relationships can be a bitch.”
“Especially after my last one,” I say, darkly.
“Yeah?”
“She was bad news.”
“What’s the story there? Or is it an I’d-rather-not-say thing?”
I appreciate the dude giving me space not to say anything about it. “Let’s just say we had different ideas of commitment. I believed in one-on-one, and she believed it was a multitiered approach involving other people.”
“Ouch.”
I wave a hand. “It was all for the best in the end. But it left me with a bad taste in my mouth.”
A bitter taste, considering how things went south with Katie, my live-in girlfriend, a couple of years ago.
I give him the bare-bones version.
We shared a place in San Francisco and had an ironclad lease for a year.
Trouble was, she had an ironclad interest in the building’s new landlord.
One day I forgot my lunch, and since we’d just finished a call in the neighborhood, I had my partner stop the rig at our place. I ran upstairs, planning to duck inside, grab my lunch bag from the fridge, and go.
Instead, I found Katie on the kitchen table. The landlord was between her legs, having her for lunch.
Yeah, that was fun.
Moving out and finding a new place was even less fun.
Since then, my interest in getting serious has dwindled to less than zero.
The only solace was he jacked her rent through the roof when she dumped him a few months later. I heard through the grapevine that she couldn’t afford to stay and had to move into a one-bedroom with six other people, or something like that.
I take another drink of my beer then set it down. “Anyway, that’s one of the reasons why I’m single. I don’t have time for that shit in my life right now.”
He nods, seemingly pleased with my answer. He scratches his jaw. “Listen, I know you’re looking for a place. I didn’t mention this sooner because I had a few loose ends to tie up, but I have a room above the garage for you. Separate entrance and everything. It even has its own bathroom. Plus, it’s less than a mile from your sister’s house.”
That piques my interest. Shaw’s a good guy, and I wouldn’t mind sharing space with him. I doubt we’d run into each other too much, but if we did, it’d be cool.
He shows me some pics on his phone, and it’s a sweet, spacious finished room above the garage.
Ten minutes later, I’m buying the next round—soda this time, since we both need to drive—and toasting.
He emails me the agreement, and I give my digital John Hancock, initiating a transfer for the first month’s rent. Nothing too fancy in the lease. Just a standard rental arrangement. The best part? Well, the second-best part, after the bed? It’s month by month, and that suits me fine.
I raise a glass to Shaw. “This helps so fucking much.”
All he had to say was “king-size bed above the garage,” and I was sold.
Shaw shakes his head. “Nope. It’s the least I can do.”
When we finish, we head out of the Barking Pug, and he follows me as I ride to my sister’s. I park the bike there, figuring I’ll pick it up tomorrow, then I toss a duffel into the back of Shaw’s truck, and we drive the mile to his home.
It’s . . . well, much prettier than I’d pictured.
A porch swing hangs in the front. The deck is lined with potted plants. Flowers bloom in the front yard. I lift a brow as I spot a mailbox decorated with drawings of envelopes and stationery in every shade of pastel.
Shaw’s taste is . . . unexpected.
We walk along a well-kept stone path to the front porch where a doormat shaped like a watermelon greets our feet.
“This is, um, cute.”
He nods. “Yeah, my sister has good taste.”
He presses the doorbell, and I tilt my head to the side, asking, “Sister?”
Gesturing to the lawn, he answers, “Yeah. It’s her place. I help her rent the room above the garage. But don’t worry. There’s plenty of privacy, and she’s cool. Well, as long as you don’t break the law.”
I tense, wondering what he means.
But the answer is crystal clear when the door opens, and standing there is the law-enforcing someone I had my lips all over yesterday.
11
Perri
I answer the door at eight at night in my orange-and-black witch-patterned pajama bottoms, a spaghetti strap tank, and a messy bun. I haven’t done laundry in a week, and the Halloween jammies are the only ones clean. But the washing machine is running right now, so there’s that Pyrrhic victory.
Also for the record, I’m sporting zero makeup and zero support for the girls.
Braless for the . . . not win?
Exactly what I don’t want to be wearing when I see Derek McHotPants again.
I furrow my brow, staring at the sight on my doorstep—a satisfied Shaw, a confused Derek, and a duffel bag. I’m thoroughly perplexed too. But hey, I’ve walked into meth houses a few towns over, run down thieves who’ve nicked five-hundred-dollar vintages of wine, and I’ve busted vagrants for harassing citizens.
My poker face is epic, from practice and from necessity. I can absolutely handle the guy I want to bang six ways to Sunday showing up on my front porch next to my brother, of all people.
I lean against the doorway, doing my best annoyed homeowner not wanting to deal with door-to-door salesmen. “Are you selling magazines? Because my subscription to Good Housekeeping just ran out. But I’d love to re-up if you can give me a great deal.”
There. That’s the perfect counterpoint to my pajama couture.
Derek’s lips quirk up. “Funny thing, I do in fact have magazine subscriptions, as well as Encyclopedia Britannica if you need them. But they come with a catch. You would need to order a couple dozen boxes of turtle clusters.”
A smile threatens to break through my tough girl facade. “I guess it’ll be a hard pass, then. I have never been a fan of turtle clusters.”
Derek whispers, conspirator-style, “Me neither. I never understood how anyone could peddle those things.”
Shaw spreads his arms wide, pleased as a dog lounging on laundry fresh and warm from the dryer. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. This is going to be perfect.�
�
What is he talking about? Because I’m still at a loss as to why either of them is here, unannounced. “What’s going to be perfect?”
He smirks. It’s the smirkiest smirk ever. Then he smacks his forehead. “My bad. Wherever are my manners? Perri, I did as you asked. I rented the room above the garage. To Derek.”
I freeze. No. Just hell-to-the-no. He did not say that.
This has to be Shaw’s idea of a joke.
This is my wisecracking, full-of-it brother. This is payback for . . . kicking his shin under the table? Though this hardly seems tit for tat.
“What did you just say?” I ask through my confusion.
Shaw is undeterred, gesturing grandly to the man next to him. “Derek, meet Perri. If you ever get scared, she’ll protect you. She sleeps with her piece.”
I raise my hands in exasperation. “One, I do not. Two, what the hell, Shaw? Is this another one of your jokes?”
He’s dead serious. “No. Why?”
Derek gulps but wisely keeps his mouth closed.
I stare at my brother. “Seriously? I asked you to rent the room. I didn’t ask you to rent it to . . .” I trail off—I have no idea how I should refer to Derek.
Lover seems like a massive overstep. He’s not earned that title yet, even if I want to slam it on him as much as I’d wanted him to slam me against the steel wall of the waffle truck yesterday.
My about-to-be hookup?
That sounds rather gauche.
A screw toy? Fuck fling? A coming-soon-to-a-one-night-stand-near-you?
Shaw clears his throat and speaks confidently, like that kid in school who’s sure he has the right answer. “You wanted me to rent the room, and I did. To a responsible, respectable, cool-as-fuck dude who desperately needs a place to stay while he’s in town to help out his sister and her kids, who happen to live down the street from you. Is that what you meant to say, Perri?”
I fume, squeezing my eyes shut, gritting my teeth.
When I open my eyes, Derek is laughing. But it sounds forced. “Hey, no worries. I thought Shaw lived here. Listen, it’s fine.”
Shaw beams. “Exactly. It’s all fine. This is the ideal solution. You wanted a renter. Derek’s a good guy. He’s not going to bang anyone else. You’re not going to bang anyone else. Neither one of you wants a relationship. It’s the absolute perfect rental situation. You can work on your kissing practice to win that contest, and he can be near his sis. Admit it—this is a brilliant solution.”
He’s serious.
There’s no hint of a ruse. No secret smile underneath it all. He’s not playing some sort of joke on me, because when he does, Shaw usually breaks under pressure quickly.
He’s not breaking. He’s not bending either. Carefully, I ask my brother, “You planned this after I told you about him at dinner yesterday?”
Derek, brow furrowed in a frown, cuts in. “It’s okay, Perri. Don’t worry about it. I can find another place to stay.”
And all I can figure is he’s annoyed I mentioned him to my brother at all. Come to think of it, I’d probably be annoyed too.
Shaw jumps in. “Listen, I need to jet. I’m meeting Gabe at the gym. But be nice to each other. Remember, the key to being good roomies is respect, tolerance, and privacy.”
Shaw hauls me in for a big brotherly hug. “It’s going to be great. Aren’t you proud of me for being helpful?”
“Pride is not the dominant emotion I’m feeling right now,” I deadpan.
If we were alone, I’d give him a piece of my mind. I’d give him a full serving, plus a second helping of are you fucking insane?
Shaw tips his imaginary hat. “Looks like my work is done.” He wipes one hand against the other, trots down the steps, gets into his truck, and peels away.
Leaving me standing in the doorway looking at the man I want to jump.
The man who’s my new . . . housemate?
12
Perri
I’m obviously an asshole.
But still.
Am I truly supposed to rent the room above my garage to this . . . specimen?
Yes, that’s exactly the word I was searching for.
Derek is an exemplary specimen of a man. All inked, muscled, tall, dark, and handsome, crooked-grinned man. With a square jaw to boot, deliciously covered in a neat, trim beard I want to feel against my inner thighs.
Fuck.
I am a dirty girl.
A bad, naughty vixen who objectifies too-hot-for-words men.
But seriously. The man radiates sex appeal. I bet cats everywhere rub their faces against his legs to mark him. The man was built for sex. He’s the stuff of panty-melting ovary explosions.
Which means this is a predicament, since I have a bit of cat in me and I’d like to rub up against him.
Derek glances at the sidewalk, and for the first time since our encounter on the side of the road, his cocky veneer is stripped off. “Why don’t I hit the road? I’ll go back to my sister’s house. This was obviously some sort of misunderstanding.”
“Obviously,” I say, but a sliver of guilt festers under my skin. “Because it’s weird. Right? It would be weird if you were my housemate.”
He nods quickly, reaching to pick up his bag. “Totally weird.”
Then I recall Shaw’s words. My brother actually said Derek and I could practice kissing. That means Derek doesn’t simply know I mentioned him to Shaw—he knows I told Shaw about our kiss. Red spots of embarrassment flame across my cheeks. “Wait, Derek.” I grab his arm before he picks up the bag. “I didn’t tell him to find you and rent it to you. I didn’t know you guys knew each other. Please don’t think I was trying to trap you or anything.”
He chuckles lightly. “You mean you aren’t trying to trap me?”
“I’m so not trying to trap you. I’m trying to kick you out,” I say, laughing, then I let go of his arm.
“I don’t feel trapped, for what it’s worth.” He doesn’t reach for the bag.
“I said something about entering a kissing contest with a guy who had sunburst tattoos,” I say, my eyes straying to his arms. Dear God, his arms. I want to feel them pinning me down, to stare at them as he moves above me.
I shake my head, trying to snap out of it.
“You like my ink?” he asks.
“I do.”
“I have more where that came from,” he says in that low, deep voice that’s an injection of pure liquid pleasure.
So is the vision he’s painted—the idea that art covers his body in places I can’t see right now. I try to wave off the wild images of his hips, his lower back, his abdomen. “Anyway, sorry about the misunderstanding. There wasn’t a trap or plan. Shaw was just being Shaw.”
“It’s all good. I’ll head back to Jodie’s. There’s a couch there calling my name.” This time, he grabs his duffel and slings it over his shoulder. It looks like it weighs three hundred pounds.
I peer around for his bike, but don’t see it. “You’re going to walk back with all your stuff?”
“It’s no big deal. It’s good training for work.”
I point to the bag. “Is that all you have?”
“Yeah, but listen, it’s all good.”
But it’s not all good. It’s all . . . weird. It’s all awkward. And it’s all so uncomfortable—for him.
The man is living on his sister’s couch, out of a duffel.
I’m not heartless enough to kick him completely to the curb. “Why don’t you come in, and we can talk. I’ll try to help you figure something out. Do you like wine?”
His lips curve up. “Am I in trouble if I say no?”
I give him my best staring-down-perps stare. “It’s illegal to dislike wine in wine country. You might, in fact, be banished from the town limits. By me.”
He smiles. “Just messing with you, officer. Of course I like wine.”
“Good answer, Mr. Trouble.”
Winking, he enters and drops his bag on the floor in the entryway.
I head to the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow. As I glance quickly at my mostly neat living room, I’m reminded I wasn’t expecting a man tonight. If I had known he was coming, I’d have done the Swiffer-duster dance, cleaning every surface, spraying the bathroom mirrors, putting away every container of deodorant or bottle of Midol to make sure he never knew I might possibly sweat or have PMS.
I’d have sidled up to the door, a touch of gloss on and something casual but sexy framing my figure.
Instead, I’m in jammies and wearing no face paint. There’s no cosmetic artifice, but what do I have to hide anyway?
In the kitchen, he scans my collection of fridge magnets, which covers almost every square inch of the appliance. They’re nearly all vintage-style pictures of women saying sarcastic things, courtesy of my retro-loving friend, Vanessa.
Yoga class? I thought you said pour another glass.
And I thought I wanted a career. Turns out I just wanted paychecks.
You piqued my indifference.
He smirks, tapping the last one. “Very you.”
“Is it?”
“Full of sass and spark.”
I smile. “You’ve got me there.” I grab a bottle of chardonnay and a wine opener.
“Let me.” He reaches for the bottle before I can say I am woman, I can do it all.
Watching him open the bottle also feeds my inner vixen. Is it my imagination or do those tattoos ripple when his muscles move?
I grab wineglasses and give them to him.
He pours and hands me a glass, raising his own. “Should we drink to good witches? Or bad witches?”
I look down at the ridiculous pattern on the pants. “We’ll drink to Monday night laundry.”
“And to simple misunderstandings?”
My heart pangs with guilt again as I take a sip. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe he really thought that made sense to rent it to you.”
“Don’t think twice about it.”
“You agree, right?”
The Feel Good Factor Page 6