by Stacey Lynn
Her eyes are shining bright green emeralds. Only a few hours ago, they were dark and hazy while she rode me. Now there’s nothing but pure hilarity sparkling back at me.
Who can blame me for being curious? A man and a woman—especially one as protective as Trey and one as sexy as Caitlin—being only friends? It’s an enigma. One I’m willing to let go.
We’re only friends who have sex, anyway.
With that thought, I move in to kiss her. Those sparkling eyes are beautiful and warm, but the haze that covers them when she’s near orgasm is so, so much better.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her laughter finally subsiding. Even as she asks, her hand is already sliding up my bare chest, curling around my shoulder. I never bothered throwing on a shirt earlier. When Caitlin and I are together, it’s best to wear as few clothes as possible.
“You know what I’m doing,” I whisper, brushing my lips against hers. My hands grip her waist, and I yank her to me until she’s straddling my lap. “And now you’re going to do what you do best, all over again.”
I blink away the memory, one that happened only a few months after we started sleeping together, and I’m shocked when Trey is at the bar, looking at me like I’ve grown three heads.
“Hey, you’re here.”
“And you were in another world.”
As if he’s one to talk. Caitlin always says Trey spends half his time living in his head or with his face glued to a computer screen. I’ve seen it in person several times myself.
“Yeah yeah. Grab me an IPA, would you? Anything local.”
“Coming right up.” I reach into the fridge and pop the top on a beer, grabbing another one for myself.
When it hits his hands, he spins it in a circle, immediately picking at the corner of the label. I bite back the smart-ass comment about him being sexually frustrated. If I piss him off, he’s completely capable of taking me out with one punch, and while I’m six feet even, I’m not the smallest guy in the room. Trey’s simply on a whole different level of large. Besides, pissing him off or me ending the night with a bloodied nose and an emergency room visit doesn’t serve my purpose.
He spins the bottle again, gaze rising to mine. Lifting the bottle to his mouth, he takes a quick swallow and, when he pulls back, says, “You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah. It’s about the app. Your new dating one.” Next to me, Tucker shoves my shoulder, and I get out of his way without taking my eyes off Trey.
“Thanks, man,” Tucker says quietly. It’d be nice of me to get out of his way. Instead, I drop my forearms to the bar.
Once Tucker has moved down to the other end, Trey takes another swig of his drink. “This about Caitlin? She was pretty pissed when I saw her earlier. Kicked the wall and mumbled something about boycotting this place for at least a week.”
Pissed? Something ugly slithers inside of me. Yeah, I mean, granted, I wasn’t the nicest guy earlier, but I’d tried to make it right before she left. I thought we were good.
Hell. Who knows. Caitlin’s the most complicated woman I’ve ever met. What woman declares a sex-only relationship and not only actually means it but can still feel the same way after two years?
“Let’s just say I was taken by surprise by her willingness to use your new dating app.”
“Ah.” He nods once. “So what’d you want to talk about, then?”
There’s no point in dancing around it further. And apparently he’s not all that concerned about Caitlin being pissed at me, because he didn’t come in here looking for a fight. “I want access to it.”
His head drops, and he shakes it. When he raises it again, he’s grinning at me. Weird. “Thought you had someone.”
It’s like he already knows my plan. Trey comes across as a scatterbrained techie dork, but the man’s smart as hell. Has to be to make as much money as he does doing what he loves and doing it all self-made, but I’ve never pegged him for a people reader.
“Ended it before I called you.”
“For another shot at Caitlin.”
It’s not even a question. I don’t hide my intention at all. “Through the app.”
He pulls a face, one that’s difficult to decipher, before he tips his beer in my direction. “Hurt her, and I’ll fucking murder you. She’s been through enough, you know?”
His warning, laced with his tone and the piercing glare in his eyes, sets me on edge. She’s been through enough? Two years I’ve spent with her, and she never once opened up about anything in her past beneath the surface. Sure, she’s told me her parents are some rich hot shots who could barely be bothered to raise her, and she used to tell me stories of Trey and Corbin at college. But other than growing up with more money than I’ll ever see in my lifetime and being mostly raised by a nanny and housekeeper, that’s all I know about her. But Trey knows.
He probably knows everything about her, and that makes my fingers curl into a fist. “Enough of what?” I bite out, unable to hold it back.
“I should let her tell you.” He takes a quick gulp of beer and swings the now empty one in front of me. I take it from him and hand him a new one. Trey’s always intense when he’s not completely oblivious, but that’s all work-related. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of this guy after pissing him off.
“You think that’s ever a possibility?” If a knife slid into my gut, it couldn’t hurt worse than wondering the thought out loud. Until now, I haven’t even considered the possibility I can work my ass off to get her to see how good we could be together and still be shot down.
He nods once and grips his beer. “She ever tell you how we all met?”
“College party.” This I know. She met them leaving a dorm party. They walked her home, they laughed, and they’ve been friends ever since.
“Wrong,” Trey says, and it’s the way he says it, the faraway look in his eyes as he does and the regret in his tone, that makes me step forward, as close to the bar as I can possibly be, and lean down. “She’ll kill me for telling you, you know. But of all people, you should know.”
I don’t ask why that is. When it comes to Caitlin, I’ve always wanted to know everything, and I don’t care how I get that information. Knowing more can only help me win her over with the plan I’m about to set in place. “What is it?”
Something tells me I’m going to need a drink so I take a long swallow and slam my bottle back onto the counter.
“We were at a party,” Trey says. “Corbin and I were interested in some chicks from our Lit class so we headed to the girls’ dorm to party with them.” He shakes his head, and if I’m not mistaken, his hand tremors before he squeezes it and flexes.
“And?” My teeth are gritted together and my jaw hurts. I’ve never seen Trey this pissed. And almost a decade later? Worst-case scenarios of how exactly they met Caitlin spin in my head, making my stomach roll.
“We were at the end of the hall of this party, screwing around, being idiots, and heard this scream.” My blood boils, and I drain the rest of my beer. Nothing cools me as he continues. “Some asshole. Don’t even fucking know the dick, but he had her against the wall. Blood was all over her nose and corner of her mouth.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuck. “Was she—” I can’t even say the word. Rage pricks at the edges of my vision, blurring and turning everything a fiery haze.
“No.” He takes a large pull of his beer and stares at me unblinking. “Corbin and I beat the shit out of him before he got that far. He touched her though. Beat her up a bit to get her to stop screaming.”
“Holy fuck.” My heart is racing. That fire in my vision spreads to my limbs. To the inner need inside of me to want to love her. This guy would die at my own hands if I ever saw him or met him in person, and I would have not one fucking regret.
Their protectiveness now makes sense, down to the fact that she lives in an apartment ten floors beneath where Trey does. Until last year, it was Corbin’s penthouse apartment, but he now lives out on the coast. This is why the
y take care of her and keep her close. Why he acted like a dick when we first met. They’re not her friends—they’re her older protective brothers who have made it their mission to keep her safe. And I know this because if some asshole ever touched my sister in any way close to that, I’d have my hands on my dad’s .45 without a second thought.
Several minutes pass before my rage is a low thunderous roll, giving me the ability to think clearly. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you love her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Please.” He rolls his eye and smirks. “I know you love her, and I know that’s why you left her. I don’t blame you, either, by the way. Even before that night, I figure Caitlin was always someone who kept to herself.”
He pauses, and I don’t respond. He’s got me all figured out anyway.
Tipping his beer in my direction, he grins. “If you want a real chance at her, you gotta know what you’re dealing with, and that, coupled with her parents’ turning their backs on her when she went to them for help afterward, well, she’s all levels of fucked in the head.”
Her parents? Mine still ask me if I change my sheets regularly. Mine are so damn overprotective, and in my business I left Connecticut to get away from them for space to grow. Which they hated but still supported. That’s my family—supportive even when they disagree. And her parents turned their backs on their only daughter? After she was assaulted?
I’m left without the ability to form words until I process everything else he’s said.
“You got my back with this?” I ask.
Trey grins and it’s manic. I imagine if he ever did step into a boxing ring, it’d be the look he gave an opponent before a fight. One that says, Good luck surviving, asswipe, because I’m about to murder your ass.
He yanks his phone out of his coat pocket, swipes and taps his screen, and before he even puts his phone away, mine dings with a text.
“Go for it. You’re good for her. But all I’m sayin’ is, Good fucking luck, man. Good fucking luck.”
* * *
—
Two hours. It takes me two hours to complete the questionnaire. Two freaking hours answering everything from how I fold my socks and my preference on where a toilet seat belongs—down, obviously, because I’m trying to attract a woman and not college-aged men—to deeply held religious beliefs, where I lean on the political spectrum, and not just whether I’m red or blue, but a sliding scale on where I fall on a variety of social and financial issues. I’m pretty sure Trey now knows more about me than my own mother, and she still calls me every Sunday. If she lived on the same coast as me, she’d probably pop by unexpectedly with bags full of groceries, because while I might be nearing thirty, she still thinks of me as thirteen. God love her.
Trey wasn’t joking around before he left the bar earlier as he started telling me more about this app. It’s designed for long-term compatibility, not short-term flings or nightly hookups.
A dull headache thumps at the back of my head, stress from answering the questions in the most honest way possible, while also taking into consideration what I know of Caitlin. In order for us to even be a match, Trey said we have to have a match of at least ninety percent.
I can’t be alone forever, either, and maybe it’s time to give something else a chance.
Her words from earlier bang against my head, and I get stuck on the word “alone.”
She’s been alone? As in…no one but me. It might make me a dick, but there’s a sick thrill of satisfaction in knowing this.
And my game plan moving forward is now firmly set in place.
I’m hoping through all of this she’ll find a bunch of guys she won’t consider giving the time of day to, maybe a few who interest her, but through all of it, my plan is to slowly get her to loosen her walls around me through the messaging feature. And eventually, she’ll realize what she should have said yes to six months ago.
Chapter 5
Caitlin
I’m late, but in my defense, it’s all Trey’s fault. He called me as I was getting ready to leave for my first date via PerfectMatch, reminding me to be safe.
I’d rolled my eyes and laughed. “It’s sandwiches and soup. How dangerous can this be?” Needless to say, when I decide to jump into something, I dive in headfirst.
It’s only been a few days since I received my first set of matches, and out of the sixty-five men who match, there are a few who actually interest me. After a few messages back and forth, short conversations with all of them, I’m meeting the first guy for lunch at the Bistro du Jour. It’s a trendy hipster breakfast and lunch café that isn’t the least bit French. But whatever. I’m in the mood for their curried lentil and cauliflower soup to keep me warm.
Butterflies swarm my stomach and have since I woke up this morning. It’s only been a few days, and yet there’s the possibility of excitement strumming through me. Worst-case scenario, I end up alone. But I already am most of the time, so, really, the worst-case scenario is my life staying exactly the same.
Best case? Well, let’s just say I’m playing by my own rules for the next thirty days. Trey might intend this app to be focused on long-term relationships, but frankly, I’m just looking for a guy who makes my knees weak and my pulse thrum in that hey, let’s spend the entire night together not sleeping sort of way.
The guy I’m about to meet, Brett, is at least a step in the right direction. I’ve done a lot of thinking since hurtling out of Dirty Martini’s once Jonas heard about the app. A bottle of wine later that night, screaming at the football game, and I’ve come to one very bad conclusion.
I haven’t been able to be with another guy, because I’m not completely over Jonas. And that really bites, because he’s made it clear he’s moved on. Although he walked out of my apartment, maybe bummed I didn’t want to date him six months ago, he hasn’t let that slow him down one teeny-tiny bit. And I don’t even want to spend a single second considering the weekend he has planned for Ashley in a few days.
So why have I still been letting belly flutters occur when he’s near? It’s a waste of time. Brett, the finance guy I’m about to meet during his lunch break, might just be the guy who breaks my streak, and I am ready.
One hundred percent ready to put Jonas in my rearview and in my history of completed friends-with-benefits, and move. On.
Yup. I’m totally doing this.
I pull open the door to Bistro du Jour and scan the small restaurant. Light maple-wood tables and chairs line both walls. There’s a small bar on my right that runs the length of the café with stools attached to the floor in front.
It’s not a small space, but even then I find Brett. With floppy blond hair flipped to one side and a build that’s just on the thinner side of what I prefer, he’s already standing from his chair, brows raised in that questioning way. How he can wonder if it’s me from my profile pic, I have no clue.
My red hair is a pretty dead giveaway. Still, I untangle my scarf as I head in his direction near the back wall. The butterflies from earlier kick it up a notch. He’s cute, in that way where if he has a good personality, he’ll be even more attractive, but he’s not panty-dropping sexy.
His casual attire of jeans and a slightly wrinkled navy-blue Henley makes me pause. Is he on his lunch break as well? Finance jobs typically don’t have such casual dress codes, do they?
“Brett?” I ask as I reach him. My hand is already extended, and he takes it. His fingers are clammy and warm, and I try to pull mine back, but he holds mine tighter.
“Caitlin.” I shiver at the way he says my name. Or perhaps it’s the way his eyes dip and fall, scanning my body and lingering too long on my stomach before dropping further. To my feet.
Um. “Hi.” I tug on my hand again, and he lets go.
“You’re prettier in person.”
Oh. Well, that’s nice. “Thank you.”
He gestures for me to sit, and I slide into the chair across from him. As I sit, I wipe my hand on
my coat. Perhaps it’s nerves making his hand sweat.
“Really, you’re very beautiful. My mom said you would be.”
Um. “Your mom?” I ask. I straighten my silverware while trying not to cringe. “She knows we’re meeting today?”
He nods. Enthusiastically. Too much so. The potential for him to become more attractive drops. “Well, yes. Of course I showed her your photo. I mean, she was there when I was messaging you.”
This has the potential to take a downward spiral quickly. “Oh. You must be close then.”
“We are, I mean, considering she’s my roommate and all.”
And…there’s the spiral. The waiter comes at the perfect moment and fills my glass with ice water. “Welcome to Bistro du Jour. May I get you something to drink? Or are you ready to order?”
I lift my hand quickly. “I think we’re ready to order.” I might say it too fast. But really? He lives with his mom? I flash him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, it’s just the lunch hour and all, and work is waiting for me.”
“Sure,” he says. He takes the small menu. While he scans it, I give my order for the soup I’ve been craving all morning as well as a latte. If Brett’s bothered by my sudden need to hurry this date along, he doesn’t show it.
After our waiter leaves, I go back to where we left off. “So you live with your mom?”
He frowns, as if this isn’t surprising information given the fact we’re in our late twenties. “Well, sure. She’s the best cook I know, and why pay for rent when she takes care of everything?”
Yes, why indeed. How silly of me. I change the subject. “So you work in finance. What do you do?”
“I balance checkbooks.”
That’s not exactly a job description. “So you work in personal finance, then? Like at a bank.”
“No.” Brett shakes his head and reaches across the table to my hand. Before I can slide it out of his reach, he takes my fingers in his. This is getting more uncomfortable by the moment, and I’ve almost forgotten what I asked him when he says, “I balance my mom’s checkbook. She pays me.”