by Meghan Quinn
“Don’t look at me like that.” I palm his face and turn it downward so he’s forced to focus on the place setting in front of us. “Pay attention. This is going to be important. There will be an actual ball we’ll attend after the runway show. It will be a sit-down, and you’re going to want to know the place settings and how to use them.”
“Can’t I just watch you? Do I really have to learn this shit?” He runs his hand through his hair, his frustration starting to show. We’ve been working on the shop all day and now, with plastic ware and paper plates, I’m trying to teach him proper etiquette. It hasn’t been as easy as I thought it would be.
“What if I’m talking to someone and you want to eat?”
He leans back against the wall. Between us is a makeshift table made from a cardboard box, our throw-away table settings carefully on top, and a cup full of nails in the middle to represent a centerpiece. It isn’t the classiest, but it works.
Racer carefully scratches his jaw and says, “You know, I’m not the degenerate you perceive me to be. I promise, I won’t sit at the table, prop my leg up and start scratching my balls. I’m house-trained.”
“House-trained? I watched you pick up a Swiss Roll from the floor, dust it off and swallow it whole.”
“That’s living by the five-second rule, Princess. It helps build immunity, nothing wrong with wanting a strong immune system.”
I cross my arms over my chest, ready to challenge him. “When it’s raining, you go outside to get wet and when you come back inside, you say you just partook in nature’s shower.”
“Nothing wrong with saving on the water bill.” He smiles devilishly.
“You think boots are everyday shoe wear.”
He stretches his legs out, showing off his worn footwear. “When you carry a hammer seven days a week like me, Georgie, they are everyday wear.”
Wanting to prove my point, I move closer, crawling across the floor to reach him. With every inch forward, his ravenous eyes travel from my face, to my neck, to my breasts. There is no shame in the way he blatantly stares at me, just pure heat. It makes every nerve in my body tingle in excitement. Never in my life have I had a man stare at me like he does, as if I nodded at him, he would tear my clothes off in a second and have his mouth all over my body.
And honestly, I would not stop him, not even a little.
I want him to touch me. I want to taste his lips again. I want to know what it’s like to be held down by his strong arms as he buries himself deep within me. I want to see his face when he’s feeling euphoric. I want to see the veins in his neck pop, and his muscles ripple above me as he tries to hold back. I want to see it all.
When I reach his stretched-out body, I kneel next to him with my hands on my lap. I place my hand on his cheek, only to feel him lean into me. My thumb gently caresses the scruff on his cheek while I try to envision how it would feel rubbing against my inner thigh.
His head turns slightly, enough for my thumb to touch the corner of his lip. What I wouldn’t give to have his lips on mine again, just one more taste. I lean forward and move my hand to his ear where I caress his hair before plucking out the pencil he hides behind his ear. I lean forward and speak softly into his ear. “And this pencil, you always keep it behind your ear.” Before he can respond, I flip the pencil behind me into the pile of trash we have to take to the dumpster.
I await his snarky reply but instead of coming back with his cunning wit, he panics. Every ounce of the mischievous man I’ve come to know vanishes, and it’s almost as if a twelve-year-old boy takes over. He looks genuinely scared. Horrified.
“No.” He scrambles up, moving me to the side in the process, and launches toward the pile of garbage, digging through it. “Fuck. Fuck!” he yells, as he starts to throw trash around the shop.
Uh, is this another one of his pranks?
“What are you doing?” I get up from where he knocked me over.
“Where did it fucking go? Where did you toss it?”
“The pencil?” I ask, so freaking confused.
“Yes, the pencil.”
“Uh, I don’t know. Over there somewhere.”
His hands move rapidly over the trash, plucking through it like a crazed man. “Where the fuck is it?”
“Jeeze, calm down, I’ll buy you a new pack tomorrow. It was a joke, Racer.”
“It’s not fucking funny.” He sits back on his heels and grips his forehead.
Okay, this is a different side of him.
He’s not just acting like an asshole.
He’s panicking.
My gut is telling me I did something very, very wrong. Needing to right this, I crawl over to him and press my hand on his back; he shutters away and scowls at me.
Oh God. I did something really bad.
“Let me help you find it. It might help if we just carefully go through everything. We know it’s in here, we just have to find it.”
Not saying a word, he carefully starts picking through the trash, setting it to the side so we know what we’ve looked through and what we haven’t. Quietly, we work together, the tension between us growing exponentially with each piece of trash turned with no sight of the pencil.
“It’s in here, it’s not like it could just disappear,” I say, a little worried some mythical force came and stole the pencil. My hands shake as we get to the bottom of the trash and there is no pencil in sight.
What the hell? I turn to Racer who almost looks white, he’s so pale. I need to find this pencil. Crawling around on my hands and knees, I scour the floor. It couldn’t have gone that far.
I start making my way around the edge of the shop when I spot it. Thank you, Jesus. I hold up in the air and announce, “I found it.”
Feeling silly and embarrassed, I walk over to him and hand it back. For a brief second, I considered putting it behind his ear for him but thought better of it. With the way he’s looking at me, I’m going to assume he doesn’t want me touching him, let alone getting anywhere near him.
“Thanks,” he grunts out before getting up and dusting his jeans off. “I’m going to get back to work.”
And just like that, without any kind of explanation, he leaves the “training” session and starts putting his tool belt back on.
Crap. What the hell did I do?
Chapter Sixteen
RACER
I have never felt more awkward, more uncomfortable, and more fucking turned on in my life. It’s a lethal combination that’s doing weird things to my body.
First of all, I’m driving a Porsche right now. Yup, a fucking black convertible Porsche. Why, you ask? Because it’s all part of the illusion we are trying to portray this weekend. It’s one—yes, one—of Georgie’s brother’s cars, and he has no qualms in letting a complete and total stranger drive it. And I’ll tell you right now, I’m enjoying every second of it.
Second of all, I’m not turned on by the car. I know that’s what you were thinking. No, I’m turned on by the hot-as-fuck girl sitting next to me. Georgie and I met at Limerence. I parked my truck in the back and when I came to the front, there she was, fidgeting in her tight white dress, her golden hair in wavy tendrils cascading over her shoulders, and her lips lined in a subtle pink, highlighting every goddamn gorgeous feature on her face. This is not the Georgie I know, or at least, the Georgie I’ve come to know. I’ve become used to her construction clothes, which, don’t get me wrong, are hot, but Georgie in a dress with heels and lipstick? Fuck me, I’m hard. Needless to say, my dick has made the trip extremely irritating.
And finally, it’s awkward and uncomfortable. Why? Because, I fucking freaked out about her chucking my pencil. We have yet to really talk to each other. We’ve only said what’s been necessary like meeting time for this weekend, what to pack, and what needs to be finished in the shop. But that’s about it.
Ever since we started driving toward the illustrious Hamptons, the car has been dead silent, the only noise filtering between us the occasional blinker and r
oaring engine. And what makes this worse, when we arrive at the bungalow we’re renting, we’ll have to act like we’re a couple.
Christ.
This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have freaked out on her, but then again, I had no chance of reining back my emotions the minute she tossed the pencil away . . .
Knowing I have to do something, I clear my throat and grip the back of my neck with the hand that’s not steering. “Uh, I want to apologize about the other day.” Hearing my voice after not talking so long sounds weird. It’s scratchy but almost timid. Fuck, when have I ever been timid?
“Oh, no need,” she says, not even turning toward me.
Yup, this is awkward. She probably thinks I’m some psycho who has a sick love obsession with his pencil. Hell, that’s what I would think if I were her.
I need to clear the air, even though it’s not something I really want to explain, nor talk about. The only problem is, we can’t go on like this. There is no way we’ll be able to make this weekend somewhat authentic.
Up ahead there’s a rest stop so I take advantage of it. I don’t want to be driving when I explain everything to her.
“What’s going on?” She looks around the rest stop. “Is the car okay?”
I put it in park, far away from all the other cars in the parking lot to give us more privacy. I turn to her, my eyes fixed on the steering wheel in front of me. “Nothing is wrong with the car. Georgie, I need you to hear me out.”
“I told you, it’s fine, Racer. We don’t have to talk about the pencil.”
What a weird thing to say. We don’t have to talk about the pencil. Almost seems like there is some kind of sexual innuendo in there.
“I want to.” My index fingers rub the genuine leather steering wheel. It feels like butter, it gives me just enough of a distraction to open up to the woman who intimidates me more than anyone. “Two years ago, my father passed away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Without even thinking, her hand slides into mine, our fingers locking together. I stare at our connection, drowning in the feel of her palm against mine. You never realize how much you need touch until it’s given to you as a surprise gift. God, I love the feel of her soft hand in mine.
“It’s taken a toll on me. Emotionally and financially. I lost my best friend. I also inherited his medical debt, which was not small, and it’s the reason I’m struggling; it’s why taking on this job was so important to me. I would do anything to preserve the memory of him because he is the man who taught me everything I know. He taught me how to work with my hands, how to be a good man, a respected one. After he passed, I clung to every little thing I could, every possession of his that I could, until I had to sell it to try to stay afloat.” I run my hand through my hair, messing up how carefully I styled it this morning. “I was only able to keep a few things; the house we built together, some random memories, his chair, and the pencils he used to collect on jobsites . . .”
“Oh my God.” Georgie leans in close to me. “I had no idea, Racer. I’m so sorry. I would never have disrespected your father like that if I had known.”
“I know, Princess. You had no idea. I just needed you to know why I freaked out so much. I only have a few pencils left. I barely use them anymore, but I feel the need to carry one around with me whenever I’m on a job. It’s like he’s with me, watching over every brick I lay and every nail I hammer, just like he used to.”
“Racer . . .” Leaning in even closer, she slips her hand over my jaw and forces me to look her in the eyes. They’re brimming with tears, sorrow for my loss obvious. She’s feeling what I’m feeling. She understands, and fuck me if at this very moment, this intimate moment that’s enveloping us, I’m crushing on her. Fucking big time.
All it takes is a little humanity to help you fall for another soul. And I’m falling, I’m falling hard. I’m not sure if any kindness would do, or whether it’s simply the gentle and sassy woman in front of me.
“I’m so sorry you’ve had to endure so much pain, so much heartache, and so much insufferable responsibility all at the same time. Losing a loved one is heartache on its own, but to lose your father and inherit his debts as well . . .” She shakes her head. “You’re one extraordinary man because I would never have guessed you were harboring such pain.”
“It’s because I’m flawsome,” I joke, which makes her smile. Her hand slides down my jaw to my chest where she puts some unwanted distance between us. I want her to come back. I want her to rub her thumb across my lips. I want her to rub her fingers across the scruff on my jaw while she stares into my damn eyes. Fuck, I want her so damn bad.
We’re so different. We come from different worlds. We come from different upbringings. So how is it possible that we’re both so fucking similar? Aligned. Driven. Perseverance is our middle name. I refuse to drown in the debt my father left me so I can preserve the one thing that means the most to me: my house. And Georgie, she’s a motherfucking train, plowing forward, determined as hell to make Limerence a household name, to prove her father wrong.
At first I didn’t see it. I didn’t notice the same strong set in her jaw, speaking of true determination, but now, since she opened up to me about her dad, I can’t see anything but a strong, goal-oriented woman on a one-way track to make her dreams come true. And that’s fucking sexy.
“We should probably go so we get there at a decent hour.” She breaks the silence and squeezes my hand. “Thank you for sharing. You didn’t have to, but I truly appreciate it.”
“No need to thank me, Georgie. I couldn’t take the heavy breathing coming from you anymore, and I know you were chomping at the bit to ask.” And just like that, I break the spell. I did it on purpose, because I couldn’t take her small, intimate touches anymore. My dick is already hard, and I don’t need it to pop out of my hundred-dollar khaki shorts. Christ.
“I was not breathing heavy.” She fully sits back in her seat, clearly irritated.
I impersonate a heavy breather and put the car in drive. “It was like you were trying to suck a pipe down your throat but were choking on air while you did it.” I do another impersonation, which garners a swat to the arm from her.
“I did not sound like that.”
“You so did. Should we stop by a pharmacy to get you some saline spray, clear out your nose a bit?”
“Yeah, sure, let’s do that,” she deadpans. “And while we’re at it, why don’t we take a quick break at a strip club so you can finally take care of the hard-on you’ve had this entire time.”
. . . . .
Busted.
Not able to give someone else the last word or show my shame, I say, “Staring at my dick, Georgie? If you want to see it that bad, just ask. I’m not opposed to driving with dick out. It’s refreshing in a convertible especially. Cocks like feeling the wind in their head as well.” I tap her quad with my finger. “Here’s an idea. We put the top down. I unleash my cock and you push your dress down so your tits are out and I blow down this highway. You never know what total freedom is until you feel the wind in your nipple hair.”
The visual is too much for me, I chuckle to myself. Wind in your nipple hair . . .
“I don’t have nipple hair,” she answers, clearly offended.
I waver my hand. “Eh, I’m going to have to be the judge of that. Whip them out, I’m really good at making a proper assessment on nipple hair.”
“Just freaking drive and leave my nipples alone.”
She looks out her window as I continue to chuckle to myself.
Ahhh, that’s much better. A pissed-off Georgie is the best kind of Georgie. Fucking fiery and perfect in every way.
***
“Well . . . it’s cozy,” I say with my hands on my hips, assessing our little bungalow. Scratch that, the bungalow Georgie rented. Makes me wonder why it’s so small, hmm . . .
“Cozy is not how I would describe it.”
“Yeah, how would you describe it?”
She spins around, taking in the mi
niscule space and shakes her head in disbelief. “A sardine can. The mini fridge they spoke of is under the bathroom sink, which is sandwiched between the shower and the toilet. How is that functional?”
“Are you telling me you’re opposed to using your toilet seat as a kitchen counter where you make you’re not-quite-boss-level peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”
She shivers. “Toilets should never be near the food . . . ever.” She looks around again and makes an annoyed sound. “And there is no door to the bathroom. It’s all open.”
“That’s usually what a studio is, Georgie. Every room is combined into one small space. My favorite thing in this place is the bed. I hope you’re not a sheet hog, I don’t need my toesies getting cold.”
She gives me an odd look. “We’re not—”
I place my hand over her mouth. “I’m going to stop you right there. No, I will not sleep on the floor, nor will I sleep in the chair in the corner. I’m chivalrous, but I also have a bad back from my job, so the bed will be where I’ll be resting my head. Deal with it.”
Instead of fighting back, she spins on her high-ass heels and starts to unpack her bag, annoyance in each movement. She’s so damn tense, and I can’t help wonder why.
Wanting to poke the fire—because I can’t get enough of that burning spirit of hers—I walk up behind her and press my body against hers. She immediately stands ramrod straight. I wrap my arms around her waist intimately and talk into her ear, slightly leaning over her shoulder to do so.
“Sharing a bed could be fun, Georgie. We can play games. Like pin the condom on the dick, and donut toss, and nipple barber shop. I did promise a thorough exam.”
I span my palm over her flat stomach and bring her right up against my body. Her breath does a quick intake, a gasp so sweet I’m tempted to spin her around and suck it right out of her mouth. I shouldn’t give in to temptation, but with her in this dress, in this small room, I can’t not make a move.