by Pippa Grant
That smell I’m smelling?
It’s books.
“Wha…?”
Henri pops up from behind a stack. Her hair’s tucked under a Fireballs bandana, her eyes are wide, her cheeks are flushed, and—is that my Boring Distillery T-shirt she’s wearing?
Without a bra again?
“Hi, Luca! Welcome home! Sorry about the books. I have a launch next week and I was taking signed pre-orders off my website and it kinda got out of hand while I wasn’t looking. My readers are very enthusiastic, and after I posted in my fan group that I was struggling to get excited about the book coming out after my wedding got called off, they sort of went crazy promoting the book for me. It’s weird, because it’s not like this is the first time they’ve seen me dumped on my wedding day, but my readership’s grown some, and do you know that romance readers are the most amazing people in the entire world? They’re making teasers and sharing all over social media and I thought nobody would get excited anyway because everyone wants the next Confucius book, but I got this hair to write How to Train Your Vampire, which is a total standalone not in the Confucius world, when I was with Jerry after he accidentally gave himself a concussion with an open cabinet door, and I guess people are into hot mess heroines and hot amnesiac vampires. Who knew?”
Stacks.
And stacks.
And stacks of books.
I wave a finger around the room, and she blushes and does this weird thing with her eyebrows that makes it look like two stylish caterpillars are playing charades to answer my unasked question. “Usually it’s around two hundred, but this time, there are five hundred? And I have four questionnaires I still need to answer for bloggers, and two virtual video chat interviews to prep for…so I’m sorry if I miss one or two of your games this coming week. Also, great job! You hit a home run today! I got so excited I accidentally signed a book that was supposed to go to Lisa as To Luca.”
I don’t know anything about the book business, but I know that on season ticket holder appreciation days, or during team conventions when we all sign autographs for fans for hours, it always feels like I’m signing ten thousand balls and jerseys when I know management won’t let us sign more than a few hundred because they don’t want carpal tunnel derailing performance on the field.
Also, how the hell is she getting this many books to the post office?
“Am I annoying you already? I’m annoying you already, aren’t I?”
I shake my head. We texted while I was on the road, and I’ve learned a few weird things about her that could potentially be annoying, but are strangely intriguing, and what’s more, she’s been funnier and more relatable by the day.
I kept telling my teammates I was looking forward to getting home to her, and the weirdest part is…I think it was true.
I wave at the books again. “Is this normal?”
“Signing books?”
“For all authors to do this at home. Doesn’t your publisher have a place you could go?”
“I am my publisher.”
I glance at the books again.
The cover features a broody, dark-haired guy with a hairless chest and a six-pack baring his fangs at the world as he wraps his arm around a slender dark-haired woman in an apron splattered with what I sincerely hope is cake batter.
Is that what she finds attractive in a man? Fangs and scowls and leather pants?
Leather pants aren’t comfortable.
“Oh! Oh my gosh, silly me. Are you hungry? I made some peach ginger barbecue chicken earlier, and the coleslaw is my grandma’s secret recipe—but don’t worry, it won’t make you fall in love with me—that’s her strawberry cobbler, which I use responsibly since it’s what my mom used to make my dad fall in love with her, and look how that turned out—and I also picked up some sweet corn from the farmers market downtown. It would only take a few minutes to get that boiled if you want some. Or I can stop talking if you need to go to sleep. What time’s your game tomorrow?”
“Fresh sweet corn?”
She beams at me like I’m a toddler with a speech delay who finally said the word mama. “Yes! Let me put some water on to boil. Oh, also, I replaced your shower head with one that doesn’t try to poke holes in my skin, but I left the old one under the sink so you can switch it out if you prefer it. Also, I called an oven repair guy while you were gone, and he came and took one look at your kitchen and started laughing, which was quite rude, and then he asked if your landlord was a total rhymes with grassmole for not updating this kitchen seventeen years ago, which was even ruder, so I’m writing him into my next Confucius book as a half-zombie who knows he’s being taken over by the zombie bite and is helpless to stop it and is now reflecting on all the bad decisions he made in his life that caused his wife and child and parakeet to leave him, but I’ll probably edit it all out before I publish the book, because that’s too dark for a Nora Dawn book.”
Is she breathing while she talks, does she secretly have gills? “Do I make you nervous?”
She pauses for an infinitesimal second, her brows furrowing again. “Is that a movie quote? Am I supposed to guess what it came from?”
“You talk a lot. I want to know if it’s because I make you nervous.”
“For real, Luca, I don’t know what movie that’s from. I don’t watch that many movies. I read a lot of books—or listen. Ohmygosh, did I tell you I got Jason Clarke to narrate How to Train Your Vampire? His voice. It’s like…shew.” She fans herself. “It just does it for me. That’s why the book isn’t out yet—I wanted the audiobook to release at the same time. But it does mean I should get back to work. Oh! But your corn. First, I’ll get your corn.”
“I can make corn.”
“But do you know the trick? I learned it from a cooking show. Most people way overcook boiled corn. You should only boil it for maybe three minutes for maximum flavor and crispness.”
“Do you also use magic truffle salt and water made with the tears of unicorns?”
“Aww, you’re cranky! It’s me, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”
“It’s not you. It’s me. I’m a grassmole.”
“Luca. You sent lunch to all those teachers in Florida who were going back to school this week, and you signed autographs and played ball with those kids in the bleachers in the outfield, and you asked people to donate to that family that lost their home in that fire on social media, and—”
“It’s my job.”
She rolls her eyes so hard, the dude on her cover winces like his eyeballs hurt in sympathy. “And you’re trying to counteract The Eye. I know. But it still matters that you do good things for other people, no matter why. It ripples. Like, one of those teachers probably had more patience with a kid who needed it that day because of you, or one of those kids you played ball with probably went home feeling like it was okay if he was dyslexic because he was still worthy of playing catch with one of his heroes, and that family—”
“Henri?”
“I know,” she sighs. “Stop talking.”
I wince. She does talk a lot, but after getting a few walls of texts from her in the past few days, I’ve realized she genuinely has a lot to say, and she probably hears stop talking more than she deserves.
Plus, has she been alone the last three days while I’ve been traveling? That can’t be healthy for a person with as much to say as Henri has. “Do you need help with your books?”
Her eyes flare wide. “Ohmygosh, is your Nonna on her way?”
“No, she’s—”
Too late.
Henri’s turned into Henri-on-a-mission, which means she’s flying around a stack of books, but missing and knocking into the stack of books, which sends all of the tomes toppling off the table and onto Dogzilla, who rowls and shoots between my legs, which is pretty fucking impressive considering I would’ve expected the cat to just lay there with a pile of books on her and give Henri a pathetic please get these off me so I don’t have to move look.
Huh.
Those walls of text now have me imagining Dogzilla’s internal monologues. Also—“Is your cat in a cat costume?”
She flips on the water to fill a pot. “She insisted. I offered the frog costume, the Marilyn Monroe costume, and the vampire costume, but she wouldn’t get off the cat costume. That one cracks me up. What cat wants to dress up like a cat? But I guess she was feeling like being an orange tabby today.”
“Is that a new faucet?”
She freezes. “Oh. Yeah, I installed that yesterday after I did some research on what causes faucet leaks. Your old one probably would’ve been fine with the temporary fix your plumber did, but this was better. If you don’t like the design—”
Jesus.
She’s going to make me do it.
She’s going to make me kiss her to shut her up.
I don’t know why it feels necessary when thirty seconds ago her blabbering was simply cute and endearing and not at all sexy, but I’m suddenly striding across the kitchen, cupping her cheeks, and devouring her lips like I’m a possessed Cupid trying to kiss the words out of her mouth and the problems out of the world.
Oh, god.
It’s The Eye.
I’m kissing Henri because I’m possessed by The Eye.
And I don’t care.
I’m the bug. I’m the bug drawn to the bug zapper light, and I don’t care. Because her lips taste like honey and they’re pillowy soft and pliable beneath mine, and I will never get enough of the sound of a woman’s sigh as she gives in to kissing me back, and until this exact moment, I didn’t realize how much I’ve been missing a woman’s touch.
Especially since this one comes with actual, honest to god blood flow to my dick.
Did I say blood flow?
I meant the dam burst and I’m harder than a baseball bat for the first time in what feels like seven long losing seasons.
She pushes up on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck. I reach behind her and shut the water off, turn us, and trip over another pile of books.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps when I break the kiss, and the next thing I know, we’re all over each other.
Is there anything hotter than being wanted by a woman?
I don’t think so.
She’s pressing her belly into Mr. Woody. I’m thrusting my tongue down her throat. She scrapes her fingernails down my back, but I’m wearing a shirt, which seems stupid when there’s a woman wanting to leave marks, so I pull back long enough to rip the damn thing over my head, shove three more piles of books off the countertop, and hoist her up there before diving back into ravaging her mouth.
I’m possessed.
Either that, or Henri’s secretly made of some kind of potent aphrodisiac. She’s a genetic experiment in walking temptation.
That’s the only rational explanation for this desperate need to know how her hair feels between my fingers and why my palms itch to cradle her breasts and how if I don’t bury my cock inside her in the next five minutes, all of my internal organs will implode, sucking me inside myself until I’m the black hole formerly known as Luca Rossi.
Jesus on a breadstick, what is she doing to me?
And why don’t I care?
“Is this—how—you teach?” she gasps between kisses.
“Yes,” I grunt back. I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, but I’ll tell her anything she wants to hear so long as she keeps her legs wrapped around my waist.
Her fingers trail down my bare chest, and she moans into my mouth.
She moans harder when I fumble my hands under her shirt, and when I find those two glorious mounds tipped with pebbled nipples, she pumps her hips harder against mine.
God bless the woman for not wearing a bra.
“More, Luca.”
“Fuck, you’re sexy.”
Is there anything wrong with coming home to a woman who’ll hump me on the kitchen counter?
No.
No, there’s not.
This time, she’s the one who pulls away to tear her own shirt off, and hello, beautiful Henri breasts.
I’m drooling.
I’m drooling over the sight of her rosy nipples and the round plumpness of her flesh, and I’m silently naming the left one Henri and the right one Etta, and I definitely need to make sure both of these ladies feel equally loved.
I hit a home run this afternoon.
I deserve to score when I walk back into my castle.
My run-down castle with the queen who shines so bright that she makes it feel like Buckingham fucking Palace.
Fuckingham Palace.
Yeah. That’s what I’m renaming my home.
Also, I have never tasted better breasts in my life.
It’s like she rubbed them with bacon grease, except better, and also not greasy.
Maybe this is why her last name is Bacon.
Jesus. Thinking about bacon grease shouldn’t be a turn-on, but with every lick of her nipples, I’m getting harder and harder, and I don’t know that my dick’s going to survive me giving Etta the same level of attention that Henri’s currently getting.
And I mean Henri the boob, not Henri the woman.
I switch to Etta before I come in my pants and blow the damn things right off my legs.
Henri the woman has my hair fisted in her hands and she’s chanting yes, oh god, more, Luca, yes yes YES and her legs are rubbing my sides because apparently I’m damn good at sucking on breasts and I’m driving her wild, and swear to sweet holy fuck, this is better than bringing an entire stadium to their feet.
Because an entire stadium doesn’t smell the way Henri’s pussy smells.
“I’m going to eat you,” I order her.
Yeah. Order. I’m ordering her to let me eat her like I’m a caveman, and I’d take it back, except she’s suddenly twisting on the counter and pushing her killer vampire unicorn pajama shorts down, one hip at a time, until she’s spreading her legs and pushing me down between them.
And there’s Henri’s sweet honeypot, and it is all mine.
I’ll probably need the best therapist in the world to explain this all to me and help me work through it tomorrow, but right now, all I care about is licking her clean and exploring that sweet little nub with my tongue and teeth and making her moan.
She was going to feed me corn.
Corn.
Not today, Henri. Not when I can snack on your pussy instead.
I’m going in for the big finish—her hips are thrusting against my mouth and her pants and moans are getting higher pitched, and I know she’s close.
Hell, I’m close.
I thought snacking on her breasts would do it for me?
“Luca, I’m—Nonna!”
Oh, no, she’s not, because I’d never—
She swats my head, squeaks, and then says it again, this time in a hiss. “Nonna.”
“I don’t care,” I tell her pussy.
“Is that so, Luca Antonio?” my grandmother answers.
I jerk my head up.
Henri dives off the counter, lands on a book, which slips out from under her, and she goes flying, legs spread, beaver exposed while my grandmother stands in the doorway surveying her handiwork.
“What are you doing?” I explode while I throw a dish towel, and then a book, and then finally Henri’s shirt at the woman crawling on the floor to try to hide behind a table leg.
Nonna looks at me.
Then at Henri.
Then back to me.
She smiles. “Preening. I’ll be in the guest room. And I’ll wear earplugs.”
Nonna Gels her way out of the kitchen doorway, because that’s Nonna.
Henri peeks up at me. She’s crouched over like she’s playing the part of a turtle in a grade school play, but even the sight of her naked sides and legs is making my dick strain harder.
“So that was my next lesson?” she whispers. “It was very nice. Thank you.”
Very nice.
Thank you.
Only Henri.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter. Because what else is a guy supposed to say to that?
19
Henri
I, Henrietta Leonora Bacon, am not falling in love with Luca Rossi.
I’m not entirely certain what exactly just happened, but I know that if I don’t acknowledge it, then it’s not happening. Even if he’s not the jerk that Jerry made him out to be, that doesn’t mean I’m falling in love.
It means I’m learning to appreciate a man without feeling the need to get engaged to him.
Yep. That’s it.
And the fact that my feelings toward the man who’s re-stacking my books while I pull my clothes back on have warmed after getting to know him better, coupled with him saving me from the hockey players who were saving me from the bird that wanted my hat right before he left, added on to our funny text exchanges while he was gone, and I might still have the hat he gave me tucked in my luggage so I can sniff it occasionally—those are all merely signs that we’re friends.
Not in love.
I’m not having visions of white and I’m not hearing wedding bells.
Does anyone hear wedding bells anymore? I’ve been to dozens of weddings—most of them for research, though I don’t crash, I ask in advance and pay for my own meals—and I’ve only heard wedding bells at two of them.
Which isn’t the point.
The point is, I had a sexual encounter with a man whose bed I’m going to sleep in tonight, with him, most likely naked because his house is a million degrees, and I am not falling in love with him.
“Can I—” he starts after he’s stacked the books, and I cut him off with my brightest smile.
“Nope, that’s great. Thank you! I couldn’t have stacked the books so fast without you! You should go get your rest. Big game tomorrow. It’s all over the news that you might make the playoffs for the first time in so long that the people here forgot the playoffs exist. Or would’ve, if Copper Valley didn’t have such an awesome hockey team. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you take care of you so you can be the best center fielder the Fireballs have ever had.”
He stares at me like my top half has turned into a shark or something. “My Nonna would’ve been a better center fielder than most of what the Fireballs have had the last thirty years.”