Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  Why would he kiss me?

  And how come I felt so warm and shivery and good?

  He’d grown into his hands and feet over the last fifteen years and was no longer a skinny geek. Now, he was six feet plus of dark-haired, blue-eyed sex appeal, even with the wonky nose and warped personality. I’m, well, ordinary on the best of days (and the best days are few and far between), but he had the kind of looks that attract supermodels.

  No, he was just messing with my mind, like he always did. “Keep your mouth to yourself. Just because Mum is pimping me out like I’m some sort of desperate loser doesn’t mean I’m ready to scrape the bottom of the dating barrel and fall for your fake charms,” I snapped, suddenly motivated to haul myself off the couch and stomp off to bed.

  * * * * *

  “What are you doing here and why the fuck are you practically naked?” I glanced at Mark across my kitchen counter, tired and still stressed from my hellish day yesterday. My eyes locked on his massive, muscled, near-naked form. “Get out.”

  “Last night you were kissing me and this morning you’re kicking me out like it was nothing. That’s not very nice, KT.”

  “I didn’t k-kiss you!” Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I ducked my face so he wouldn’t see and fussed around in the kitchen. His pathetic – when you thought about it – thirty-second, no-tongue kiss had kept me up half the night, wondering what if… “You kissed me.”

  He strolled forward like he owned the place and wasn’t nearly naked… as in nude, bare, starkers, exposed. “You can even things up by kissing me any time you want, honey.”

  “Eeeak.” He was standing only a few feet away from me, in my open plan living-room-cum-kitchen, water dripping from his dark hair. He’d used my shower? “Stop dripping on my floor and p-put some” – I waved a hand ineffectually – “some clothes on and then get out.” I was back to speaking through clenched teeth. If this continued, I’d need veneers by the time I was thirty.

  “I thought we had this conversation last night.” He flashed one of his deadly, charming smiles. I refused to melt. “Your mum’s hired me as your handyman.”

  My eyes followed, as he ran a hand over his pecs, then down past his belly button, giving his stomach a little scratch.

  “Wha…?” I choked, coughing and spluttering back to reality as he snapped the fingers of his other hand under my nose.

  Bugger it. He’d just caught me staring at him like I was starving and he was the last supper, but that body… on a man other than Mark… devastating.

  He was smirking.

  He deserved to be smug. He must work out for hours every day to have gone from skinny geek to tanned, muscled hottie. The corner of his mouth twitched, tilting upwards. “You know handymen – we live on site because the wages are so low, in this case non-existent.”

  “What?” I’d heard him tell Mum he’d moved back to London, but he was moving in here? Into my flat? Through the open bathroom door, I could see he’d shoved all my stuff to one end of the vanity shelf to make way for his shaving kit. A wadded-up towel was dumped in the middle of my puddle-strewn bathroom floor. First, he helped my mother pimp me out, then he fake-kissed me, and now he was invading my personal space. It was too early on a weekend morning and with an empty stomach for me to even begin trying to understand what he was doing. “No way!”

  He shrugged. “When I spoke to her on the phone before I moved back to London, Muriel offered to let me stay with her. So, I didn’t bother getting an apartment. Last night she was a bit… upset after your comment about getting raped and murdered as a result of the advertisements she put up. She said she’d never be able to sleep unless one of us – me or her – stayed with you whilst you’re dating. Made sure you got home unmolested. She got quite … ah…” He struggled for an acceptable word, whilst I mentally cursed myself, knowing exactly how she could get when she fixated on something horrible happening to her or me. Mark finally settled on, “… emotional about it. So, I agreed to stay here for the next few months, instead of upstairs with her. I’ll pay my way in maintenance and decorating. I’m already moved in. I brought my stuff in last night after you huffed off to bed.”

  I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, staring at my white knuckles, and counted to ten, whilst breathing deeply. Shit. Fuck. My choices were Mark moving in or Mum moving in. I loved my mother, but there was no way the two of us could live together again without a death ensuing.

  I couldn’t face him right now. I felt like I was losing control of my life. I was losing control of my life. I turned back to my shopping, prison-release essentials – Doritos, dip, Mr Kipling’s Cherry Bakewells, and a bottle of Merlot – unloading onto the breakfast counter, sending Ian Rankin’s latest Inspector Rebus book skittering off the other side and clattering to the floor.

  I didn’t bother picking it up. It had to be Mark’s. I don’t read crime stories.

  I swallowed hard as I watched another bead of moisture swell, before breaking free to run down his chest and over his hard, flat belly, disappearing into the scattering of springy ebony hair surrounding his tight, shallow navel, towards my white bath towel.

  This. Could. Not. Be. Happening.

  It was Mark.

  Irritating Mark.

  Eyes closed, I refused to lick my very dry lips. Taking a fortifying breath, I reminded myself that whilst we weren’t blood relations, Mark had always behaved like a horrible, irritating older brother, and that was how I was going to treat him. I was not going to rise to whatever twisted – semi-naked – game he was currently playing. Yes, I was sexually deprived, but I was not going to make a fool of myself over a gorgeous body. Not when it had Mark’s personality attached to it.

  “I don’t have a spare bed for you.” Good point. I congratulated myself.

  His lip twitched, signalling his amusement. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a blow-up mattress.”

  I gritted my aching teeth, again. Mental note: invest in a low-cost dental plan. “Put some clothes on and go mooch off my mother. She’s the one who invited you to stay. Tell her you can watch out for me fine from up there.”

  “Sorry, no can do.” He strolled across the living room, closer to the kitchen. “You know she’s not emotionally strong, and after the arrest yesterday and you planting the seed that your safety was in jeopardy…” He trailed off, letting me fill in the blanks. Sometimes the only way to calm Mum and keep her from a meltdown was to give her what she wanted.

  “You’re so bloody smug,” I snarled. He smiled. As the house, including my basement flat, still technically belonged to my mum, I couldn’t stop him moving in, and given I didn’t want Mum to move in with me and have mini-fits every time she heard a floorboard creek, he was the lesser of two evils. “Don’t think you can mooch off me like you were going to do with my mum. The rent’s going to be astronomical, bills will be split, and you can do your own food shopping, help me carry mine and clean up after yourself, city boy.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, accountant girl, but I don’t work in the city anymore.”

  “Oh God.” I stared at him, trying to comprehend how things could just have become worse. I thought he’d swapped Wall Street for the city, but… “You’re unemployed, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. Just my luck. I had to end up with a nearly naked, unemployed Banker (with a W) for a housemate. “I’m not having you lie about here and leech off me.” I tossed a tea towel at him. “Stand on that and stop dripping on my bloody floor.”

  He complied, stepping onto the tea towel. “Technically, I have a job.” I waited him out. “I’m an author.”

  “An author?” I checked the name on the book that I’d knocked on the floor, just to be sure it wasn’t something he’d penned. Nope, it was definitely Ian Rankin, and the author picture on the back wasn’t Mark, so it wasn’t like he was writing crime thrillers and using Rankin as a penname. “Since when?”

  “A couple of months ago.”

  “You’ve written a book?” I left en
ough time for him to answer, continuing when he didn’t. “What’s it called?”

  “It doesn’t have a title yet.”

  “But you do have a publisher.” Please, God.

  “Not exactly.”

  My eyes narrowed. “An agent?”

  “Nope.” His lip twitched. He thought this exchange was amusing?

  “A finished manuscript? Please, tell me you have a finished manuscript.”

  “Almost.”

  I huffed out a sigh. “Just like I said: unemployed.” I turned and leant against the breakfast bar, my head tipped to one side, hair pulled back into a scruffy bun-cum-ponytail, and tried to think of a way around this

  He laughed, golden brown muscles rippling. The towel at his waist loosened. My throat went dry. For a second, I forgot Mark inhabited the nearly naked body. All I could think was… H. O. T.

  How could this be happening? Irritating older brother, irritating older brother, irritating–

  My eyes locked on the unravelling towel.

  One more inch… My breath stalled in my chest.

  His strong arms flexed as he readjusted the towel.

  I closed my eyes and felt my body sway. This was not good. Maybe my mother was actually right and I needed to get out, to date more, so my body didn’t betray me at the first sign of a hot, semi-naked man.

  In spite of my best efforts, my eyelashes lifted. Mark had moved closer. My eyes trailed back down his broad chest, over the swell of his pecs, to the ridged plane of his stomach. He had to work out religiously to be that toned, all smooth, tanned muscle with a light scattering of lovely, dark hair tracing down to…

  Bugger it! I blinked back to reality, snatching my hand back mere millimetres from making contact with his stomach.

  “Put some clothes on, and then mop up the floor you’ve dripped all over, pick up the towel you left on the bathroom floor, and move your crap off my bathroom shelf. You may be staying here, but it’s only temporary and I am not cleaning up after you.”

  * * * * *

  I stood beside the hall table, a fine tremor running over my body, heart pounding, breath short with excited anticipation. My finger shook as I hesitated over the final button on the phone. It was five days since my desperate dating advert had run in the Underground. For the first few days I’d refused to call the answering service to check my messages, but the more time that passed, the more curious I got. It wasn’t like refusing to check the messages would make the whole embarrassing situation disappear, so I might as well listen to the messages and maybe go on a few dates. My dream man could have called and left a message.

  “Wait. Wait. Wait.” Mark strode down the hallway, crowding in behind me, looking over my shoulder. “You were going to play the messages without me.”

  I sighed. “I was hopeful.”

  “Who’d have guessed you’d be so keen? After all your huffing and puffing during the week, I thought I’d have to tie you down to get you to this stage.”

  “You blackmailed me to this stage.” Not for anything would I admit to being the tiniest bit excited about listening to the messages.

  “Blackmail’s such a harsh word. I prefer to think your mother and I used gentle persuasion, as would be expected of people who love you and want to see you in a happy, healthy relationship.”

  Eyes narrowed, I hissed out a harsh breath. Seriously? “You say that like I haven’t seen the holiday video you threatened to turn into a viral dating advert if I didn’t put ‘some real effort into dating or have a lasting boyfriend within the next two months’.” Sometimes in my nightmares I turn up to work in that tiny black bikini, only I have my twenty-nine-year-old boob-a-licious body, not my skinny, underdeveloped fourteen-year-old body.

  “Whatever. It must have worked, given you’ve suddenly become so keen to start dating you’re sneaking around to listen to your messages alone.”

  “Or maybe I decided to get it over and done with and listen to my messages when you weren’t around, because I didn’t want you listening in. They’re my messages.”

  “Yes, well, I’m acting as your mother’s emissary and your bodyguard once you’re dating.” His reminder of how I’d ended up in this state of nervous excitement was not endearing. Surely, he had something better to do than hang around and check out my dates? “So, I need to be involved from the start, to help you vet applicants and weed out any undesirables.”

  “Whatever. I don’t want you making snide comments if I let you stay.” One look at his face and I knew there was no way I was getting rid of him. “You have to be quiet.”

  “Just press play, KT.”

  I did. The mechanical voice came over the speakerphone. “You have five new messages, to play your messages, press…” Ooooh. I rubbed my hands against my thighs. Taking a deep breath, to steady my nerves, I navigated through the directions pretty much as I did on my mobile phone. “Message number one, left on Saturday at 16.47.”

  Hundreds of butterflies beat wings of nervous excitement, fluttering and churning in my stomach. I was barely able to stand still, I was so excited. After everything I’d said to my mother, the man of my dreams could have seen the horrendous poster, and because he was the man of my dreams, he’d looked past the awful picture to my inner beauty and left a message inviting me on a date.

  Crackling static filled the silence. Mark shrugged a give it a minute gesture at my impatient look. Faint muttering and sniggering sounded across the line. Then… “Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof woof woof. Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof woof woof…” I recoiled, my back colliding with Mark’s chest.

  He snagged me, before horror and hurt sent me to my knees, his arm sliding around my waist, clamping me against him with one hand, reaching over my shoulder with the other to skip the remainder of the message as the call dissolved into more sniggering and catcalls.

  Sniffing, I blinked back shocked tears. It was only the first message and a bunch of stupid kids. A breath hiccupped in. I was not going to cry. I was just a little emotional since getting out of jail and being blackmailed.

  Who wouldn’t be emotional given the same circumstance? Mark’s hand tightened against my stomach, holding me still. Reminding me where I was.

  Why was I leaning into him?

  This was his fault… Well, he shouldered at least half the blame with my mother. I tugged away from his support and turned on him, finger wagging. “I knew this would happen. I’ll never be able to go out again. I’ll be bullied by all the local hoodies.”

  “Hoodies?” His American accent was thick.

  “Gangs of youths who wear tops with their hoods pulled up so you can’t see their faces, have no jobs, and carry knives. They’ll probably mug me for my mobile phone and shout nasty things at me…”

  He failed to suppress his smile. My chin began to wobble, preceding tears of self-pity. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “A couple of boys messing around is nothing. They don’t know anything about you.”

  “Except what I l-look like, or have you forgotten the digital p-posters of me all over the London Underground?” I struggled to pull myself together. I was a grownup. They were stupid, mean kids. They’d never even met me. What did I care about their stupid message?

  “It’s not the best photo of you,” Mark said. “Most people won’t even recognise you from it. Now, pull yourself together and let’s listen to the next message.”

  He gave me no time to consider or pull myself together, pressing the play button himself. “Hi… my name’s Dave. I work at the Clarins counter in Debenhams Oxford Street.”

  “There you go – this one’s an adult, employed, and doesn’t sound like he’s auditioning for The Voice.” His head tipped to one side as he spoke. “Of course, I always thought all men who worked on makeup counters were gay, but–”

  “Shhh.” I deployed a razor-sharp elbow into his side, silencing him.

  “I just called to invite you to come by someday.” This was starting to sound hopeful. He wanted to meet. “I work Tuesd
ay through Saturday most weeks. I’ll give you a free skin consultation and a bit of a makeover.”

  “A free makeover?” Mark snorted. “Cheapskate. No wonder he has to answer an advertisement to get a date.”

  “Stop it!” I pressed the pause button and glared at him over my shoulder. “I won’t let you listen anymore.”

  He rolled his eyes, the left corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Wow. What a threat.” I continued to glare. “Fine. I’ll keep quiet.” Good. “No matter how cheap they are.”

  I ignored his jibe and pressed play. “… We go in for enhancing what nature gave you, with a more natural-looking makeup application at Clarins. I’ll show you some colour palettes that are better suited to your skin tone…” His voice was very perky, salesman-ish. “You won’t believe the difference…” He paused. I could practically hear him thinking through what he was going to say. “That and a proper skin care routine should help to clear up your acne in no time.” What? One spot did not count as acne. No matter how big it was! “And Debenhams have personal shoppers in store who’ll be able to advise you on the latest fashions and what suits you. Consider it a pamper day. When a girl is at her lowest ebb in life, she really needs to treat herself.”

  “Definitely gay,” Mark said. “He must be in denial.”

  “Shh,” I said.

  “When you look better on the outside, you’ll feel better on the inside, and men find that attractive,” Dave continued. “You won’t have to advertise for a date then. I promise you’ll love it and you won’t believe how much better you feel and look afterwards…”

  I hesitated, not sure what to think or feel. I didn’t think he was being mean, and he sounded friendly enough. “It sounds like fun.” Sort of. “Maybe this advertising for a date thing isn’t so bad after all.” I struggled to keep the question out of my voice.

  “Oh, I suppose I better say I don’t want a date with you.” What? “I just… Well, I saw the picture and I thought you could use a helping hand. Anyway… Good luck.” He said it in a you’ll need it tone.