Flirty Thirty (Nerdy Thirties Book 1)

by Cassie Mae

  “I’m not patient enough for that.”

  I let out a small laugh, going back to drafting my text. “With your bottomless pockets, it may be faster to build than to buy.”

  “I’m not creative enough either,” he adds. “I didn’t major in interior design, exactly. I know next to nothing about architecture, and I’m not great at making decisions based on concepts alone.” His grin slips from casual to playful. “When I see something I like, then I go for it.”

  I gulp away a rush of arousal that went straight between my legs. What in the world?

  “You… you can hire people to do all that for you,” I tell him, clicking send on the message and setting my phone back on the table. When my gaze lifts to meet his, he’s donning an amused and… enchanted expression. It’s one I’m unsure if I should be flattered by or intimidated by. I’m leaning toward the former.

  He shrugs, breaking eye contact. “Want to know how I reached financial stability?”

  “I’m always in the mood for budgeting tips.”

  He smiles at my response, then waves me in as if he’s spouting off monetary gold and I’m the only one privy to the info. “I only invest in things I know I want.”

  Our eyes connect, and I watch those dark blue irises twinkle in a way I’ve only witnessed from a few men from my past. The familiar caffeine bubbles of attraction rise up under my skin, drying my throat and wetting my appetite. I allow myself a moment to entertain naked ideas, most of which take place right here on this table.

  I blink, shaking my head and pulling away. “And you don’t want an interior designer? A gardener?” An off-sounding laugh escapes me. “I assumed you already had staff in spades.”

  “I believe in trying things yourself first.” He takes a long pull from his water. “Only reason I hired a realtor is because I read about a page into a very thick book on buying a house before realizing it was not going to be something I could fudge my way through.”

  “Wise decision.” I lean back as our waitress puts our food in front of us. A dip of guilt hits my stomach at the small error in judgment I had when I switched my order. Cooper, however, seems very excited about what I’ve chosen to eat, his blue eyes lit up as they scan over my hearty meal for more-than-one. He thanks our waitress and immediately reaches for one of my slices of bacon.

  I tap his knuckles. “You have your own.”

  “Yours looks crispier.”

  I point a warning with my fork, and he laughs and settles in with his meal. The exchange has a strange aftertaste—strange because it doesn’t feel strange. In my scarce dating life, I’ve yet to fight over food; it’s not exactly something that happens early on. Another perk of only dipping your toes into relationships.

  Yet, I don’t seem to mind that it was his automatic response. Feeling brave and perhaps a little curious, I reach across the table for a succulent-looking strawberry sitting atop his three-stack pancake plate. He doesn’t blink an eye as I fork the fruit and bring it to my mouth.

  “You can answer that if it’s important,” he says, nodding to my phone. I blink away my fascination at his indifference to a near stranger picking from his plate and turn to my buzzing cell. It’s Sarah, messaging every few seconds because the open house starts in twenty. I quickly message her to take point on it, then swipe over to the response to the house showing request.

  “You’re in luck,” I tell him with a smile. “I can show you the house on Rose Summit this afternoon.”

  He grins over a mouthful of pancake, something I’d never in my life thought I’d find attractive, but he somehow pulls it off. “Wonderful.”

  I don’t know how he did it, but now that the business portion is over—for the most part—I find myself hoping he brings up some more deep conversation. Not that one person has changed my stance on the subject; I’m more curious than anything else. I’ve never had these conversations, never gotten past the beginning to see what the middle or end even looked like. Ends to me played out like a mutual falling away once we realized we’d done all we could do with each other. I never felt like I was used and thrown away, because I never got close enough to someone to feel that way. I never wanted to. So why am I even considering talking about life, relationships, and the like with a man who obviously is heading down a different direction?

  “Is there a policy against dating clients?” he asks, his mouth now free of food. I internally laugh at the relief I feel that he’s back to being so blunt. It’s mighty entertaining.

  “It’s frowned upon,” I say, poking my fork into the yolk of my sunny-side-up. “But there’s no official policy.”

  “Do you have your own policy against it?”

  I slowly shake my head. “Haven’t needed one.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, returning to his food. “Interesting.”

  I set my fork down. “For someone who rarely beats around the bush, you sure know how to do so when it’s the most annoying.”

  He laughs. “Well, I was waiting for the end of the meal to get down on one knee.” He winks, and I shake my head at my plate.

  “At least you’re aware of your insanity.”

  The dimple on his cheek dips suddenly before fading out entirely. “To answer your previous question honestly, though… no, I won’t be telling you I love you. That sentiment is something worth waiting for.”

  “Wow.” I bite back a smile, hiding behind another sip of juice. “Something we agree on.”

  There’s a nice, calming air between us that is somehow laced with a desire that I don’t too often feel. He’s pulled a one-eighty on my view of him with one simple meal. He’s right about one thing—he’s definitely a better ender.

  6

  Lip Tryst

  “You look happy,” Julie says, fixing her lifeless bangs on the other end of the screen. I prop my iPad up on its stand to free my hands up to flip through my wardrobe.

  “It’s a huge commission, Jules. I’m talking six figures.”

  Her eyes widen appreciatively. “Does that mean you’re treating tonight?”

  A euphoric laugh floats from my freshly glossed lips. “If you want.” I will pay for her next grocery bill. Her next seven grocery bills, I’m that excited about landing this buyer. My high has nothing to do with how the attractive man thinks I’m attractive, too.

  Nope, can’t be that.

  “I was kidding.” She tilts her head back and forth. “Kind of.”

  I skate my fingers across a few blouses, pausing on a lavender one with a low dip in the front I haven’t had the courage to wear, but after a morning of ego stroking, my confidence levels have spiked. I pull it from the hanger.

  “Hang on a sec…” Julie says, and then calls off screen. “Did you walk the dog?”

  My ten-year-old nephew Lucas answers with a grumble.

  “No Wi-Fi password until it’s done.”

  “Where’s the leash?”

  “Where’d you put it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I don’t know.” Her eyes follow across the room, and I know exactly what look her son is giving her by the way her lips purse. “Take Lauren with you!”

  “Uggggnnn.”

  Julie turns back to me. “Sorry.”

  “No worries.” Honestly, I’m used to it by now. Being the only sibling without kids has trained me enough to expect weird and frequent interruptions.

  “Oh! Nate and I may have to duck out early tonight,” she says. “The sitter can only stay till 9:30, and the kids have school tomorrow.” She lets out a long, tired sigh. “I can’t wait till summer’s here. May is my least favorite month.”

  I drop the blouse onto the bed with a laugh. She says this every year, and two minutes into summer vacation, she’s wishing them all back in school.

  “That’s fine.” I grin and turn to my closet. “Maybe we’ll want you out of there.”

  Her brows pull inward. “Is that genuine enthusiasm I’m hearing?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Maybe.” My ha
nd smooths down one of my gray jackets as I consider pairing it with the lavender for the showing. “It’s been a good day.”

  Her suspicious lips turn upward, seemingly excited about not only my compliance to go on this blind date, but my eagerness. I’m surprised by it, too, if I’m being honest. But Cooper’s flattery has made me feel like a walking vixen, even if I’m not the girl he’s looking for—which I did tell him.

  “Good. I really think you’re going to like him. He’s funny, laid back, likes cats. Oh! And I’ve heard through the vine that he’s… got no reason to compensate for anything if you catch my drift.”

  I tilt my head at her. “I know what overselling sounds like.”

  “Fine. I’ll just leave you to confirm that particular rumor.” Her laugh is cut off by an oof! as her three-year-old hops into her lap, and I get a shot of bushy brown hair through the screen.

  “Eye-ah!”

  “Hi Lily.”

  “Eye-ah, Eye-ah, Eye-ah,” she sings, and the next thing I see is a thumb before the screen goes black. Squeals from my niece and scolding from my sister blend together as Julie chases her daughter around. I laugh and lean over my desk chair to reach the iPad.

  “I’ll see you tonight, Jules!”

  “Bye!”

  I click off the chat and swipe over to my schedule. Forty-five minutes till the showing, and a swoop of excitement rushes through my stomach. Cooper ended the brunch with a proposal—a business one. I’m officially his realtor, and as such, I think I’m still going to try to convince him to build. Partially for selfish reasons—when I can, I try to give Warren business. My best friend Holland married the contractor when I was still living in my crazy early twenties, and they’re coming up on ten years of marriage and first born baby. She doesn’t mention it much, but I can tell they’re struggling a bit.

  I tap in a reminder to give her a call, Kat hopping onto my desk and rubbing her head on my hand until I give in and scratch her ears. “Okay, troublemaker,” I tell her, pointing to the bed, “stay off my clothes while I shower. Orange cat fur is not in this season.”

  She turns to show me her butt so I can give it a good scratching as well. Instead of granting her request, I strip down and head into my adjoining bathroom. My eyes narrow as I watch the kitten tilt her head at my bed where I’ve laid out my outfit. With a sigh, I grab my clothes and take them into the bathroom with me. My kitties are cute, but I don’t trust them for a second.

  ***

  The best thing about showing high-priced housing is that the owners keep it sparkly clean. There are a few showings I’ve done that we didn’t even walk inside due to either the smell or questionable carpet stains.

  I punch in the code and retrieve the key from the lock box. I’m a little early, so I let myself in and turn the security off with the number the seller’s realtor gave me. The entryway has a simple elegance to it—a wide open space with a high ceiling and extravagant lighting. A grin teases at the corner of my lips. With Cooper’s lack of filter, I imagine a very candid assessment of the place is coming, and since the owner’s pretty darn well off, I bet there is a camera or fifteen capturing the walkthrough.

  Allowing myself a little laughter over the thought, I clack my way into the formal sitting room and set my keys and purse on top of a polished white side table. The window runs from ceiling to floor, providing the room with a view of the city below. I don’t blame him for wanting to look at the place—it has a je ne sais quoi outside of the lavish layout and fine furniture that gives a person a sense of calm and serenity. If I was a billionaire, I’d want something like this—but unlike Cooper’s stubborn hide, I’d build one specifically made for me.

  Speaking of stubborn billionaires, a mud-ridden truck pulls through the front gate, squeaking to a stop behind my—by comparison—teeny tiny VW bug. I squint, trying to decide what color the truck is under all the muck; I’m guessing deep purple? Deep enough to almost pass as black if it weren’t for the sun streaking down against the hood.

  Cooper shuts the loud engine off, cranking the door open and hopping from the truck’s height. An involuntary gulp threatens in my throat, and I press a hand over my chest to calm the sudden skips in my heartbeat. It’s ridiculous—these juvenile reactions to a man I know is not for me, but his candidness earlier has awakened a playfulness that finds little harm in playing the game, even if there is no winner at the end of it.

  I take a deep breath to calm the flutters and put on a winning smile. Cooper gets to the front door before I do, poking his head in and meeting my smile with one that would blow the panties off any innocent bystander.

  “Afternoon.”

  “On time,” I reply for lack of something clever to say. “I like that in a client.”

  He steps inside and flips his keys around his forefinger until he gets them settled into the front pocket of his jeans. “I’ve shown enough of my own houses to know what a pain it is to have to leave for showings.”

  “Thoughtful.”

  “Just another one of my finer qualities for you to consider,” he says, leaning into me as he passes. I purse my lips to refuse him the satisfaction of amusing me with his arrogance. But it doesn’t quiet the unsteady rhythm that’s returned to my heart the moment his warm breath rushes over my shoulder. Damn him.

  “Well, look at that view,” he says, and I shake myself out of the daze I’m falling into and chant the dollar amount I’m hoping to get from this whole thing. Professionalism, Maya. Learn to use it.

  Cooper crosses his arms over his white t-shirt, the muscles near his elbows are veined indicators that he either works a lot with his hands or he has a personal trainer—or is one. I fix the flowy hem of my blouse so that it hides my midsection roll more effectively.

  He stands in front of the window and admires my personal favorite perk of the place while I confidently step up beside him.

  “It’s reflective,” I inform him, veering into my realtor mode, imagining sunny vacation spots as soon as I get my commission. “Feel free to forgo the drapes.”

  His shoulders jerk with a hint of laughter. “Or parade around in the nude.”

  Mother of all sweet images. I fold my arms to stop the onslaught of jitters that run through my stomach just at the visual of Cooper in the emperor’s new clothes, standing like Mr. Clean in front of this giant window while some innocent passerby hasn’t a clue to the show they’re missing.

  I clear my throat. “Can’t do that with a bunch of kids running around.”

  “Exactly.” He leans to the side, his face creeping close enough to mine that I can count the individual tiny hairs along his jaw. “Gotta get that in before they get here. Stripped Sundays.”

  I bite back a grin. He has a much cleverer name for his own personal naked time. I plan on stealing it next “Stripped Sunday.”

  “How many floors?” he asks, turning from the window and crossing toward the stairs. After a few tripped steps to catch up with him, I slip my heels off near the front door.

  “There’s a basement, main level, second level, and a master suite that is the entire third floor. There’s an attic as well.”

  He lets out a long whistle, pulling himself up the stairs using the banister. He takes them two at a time, and my plump and short legs scurry to keep up with his daddy long ones.

  He stops at the second floor for only a moment, grinning as I let out a long breath as I reach the top, and then he starts down the hall. “Where’s this third level staircase?”

  “Not sure.” I push open one of the doors that leads to a bigger-than-my-kitchen bathroom. “Did you want to see these rooms first?”

  He shakes his head, blue eyes lifting to the ceiling. “I wanna see top to bottom.” His gaze takes a swift turn toward me. “Just my style.”

  I wait for his stare to drop, hitching my hand on my hip in faux annoyance at his entendre, even though I’m enjoying them more and more, never having had this sort of attention directed toward me. But I warn myself to err on the side
of caution until I can get a thorough background check on him—not that I am toying with ideas of actually giving in and agreeing to a date with the man.

  He surprises me once more by not letting his eyes travel south, and he turns, starting down the hall again. My hand falls from my waist, and I blink against the surprising disappointment crawling through me. He starts opening random doors, and I join him, internally shouting at myself. I open doors to so many lavishly decorated rooms that I lose count after six.

  “You’ll definitely have room to grow,” I say with an amused grin after shutting the door to another bedroom.

  He laughs, and the sound swoops through my chest, and I bite my lip, forcing myself not to get giddy over the fact that I made that laugh happen.

  “Ah,” he says, distracting me from the doorknob I was about to try. He steps through the door he just opened, and I secretly appreciate the fact he’s not insisting I lead him up. The curved stairwell is narrower than a standard staircases, and wiggling my plushed-out rearend in his face doesn’t sound appealing to me in the slightest. The very opposite, very tight, very manly view he’s providing me, however…

  “Well,” he says, letting out a long sigh as he steps into the master suite. “That’s disappointing.”

  I meet up with him, desperately trying to hide the fact that my breathing is close to a woman in labor. My eyes scan around the suite, brows pulling in. What could possibly be disappointing? The furniture, maybe? The white-only color choice isn’t my personal preference, but he has his own furniture to replace all of that. The windows are reflective up here as well, going from ceiling to floor facing the back side of the house which is just the rocky mountain wall. It gives the place a more private feel, for sure.

  He strides toward the bathroom, the deep, jetted tub taking up most of the space—as it should—leaving a marble shower in the corner, his and hers sinks, and a private area for the toilet. He doesn’t comment with anything but a “hmm” before moving onto the closet.

  “This is the quietest you’ve been since we’ve met,” I joke as he clicks on the light and walks through the giant closet that could very well double as a nursery… if that’s what he wants. I’d use it for what it’s designed for; maybe spend nights with my shoes. I mean, there’s a spot right there that I could prop a pillow up and curl under a blanket with my brand new Manolo Blahnik’s.