Date Me Like You Mean It

by Grey, R. S.

  His brows quirk with confusion. “What’s up? Why are you being weird?”

  “I just…can’t quite wrap my head around how this is possible.”

  “Us together in the shower?”

  “No—you being back in Texas. You asking me to marry you.”

  He smiles and shrugs, like to him, it’s just another Monday morning.

  Then I watch as he holds out his right hand and slowly unfurls a thin gold antique ring.

  “What’s that?”

  “A ring I got last night from a nice woman sitting beside me on the plane. I told her my plans, about me quitting my job and flying back to Texas. I told her I wanted to marry you, and she asked me if I had a ring to give you.”

  He takes my left hand and holds it out flat so he can start to slip the ring onto my finger. It’s delicate and beautiful with a tiny flowering vine etched into the gold.

  “She said she bought this ring on her 50th birthday, when she was on a solo trip to Paris. She’d always wanted to visit the city, and though she had no one to take with her, she still went. One day, she was feeling a little lonely, so she took a walk beside the Seine and struck up a conversation with a street vendor selling vintage jewelry—”

  “Just like—”

  He nods. “At my loneliest, I found a painting. She found this ring. She insisted I take it, and I told her I would give it to you after you agreed to marry me.”

  The ring settles into place and I stare down at it, completely in awe.

  Aiden smiles and steps away slightly, leaning his head back and running his fingers through his dark strands. I watch a drop of water trace the contour of his cheek and jaw before it disappears below his chin.

  Then I work up the courage to broach the dreaded topic. “Aiden?”

  He hums, keeping his eyes closed as he lets the warm water wash over him.

  “I want to marry you. I do. But I don’t want you to quit your job on my account. You love your work. You’ll regret it if you leave it all behind just to be with me. I bet if you called your boss first thing…”

  His eyes blink open and my words slip away. I’m not sure what I was expecting to see in his expression, but he almost looks angry with me.

  Instinctively, I take a microscopic step back.

  “I just don’t want you to regret it,” I say with a quiet voice, wondering why he’s looking at me like that, with smoldering eyes and frustrated brows.

  He reaches out to catch my hand, and I realize I’ve been continuing to back up away from him.

  He tugs me close, and our warm bodies press together. He uses his pointer finger to tilt my chin up, and I listen carefully as he speaks.

  “I would quit a thousand times over to be with you. Any job. Anywhere.”

  “But—”

  “No. Listen to me. Work is what we do to pay the bills and fill our time. Sure, I’m fortunate that I enjoy what I do, but if you think I care more about that than I do about you…Maddie, it doesn’t compare.”

  Our foreheads meet, and I close my eyes.

  “I don’t care what I’m doing as long as you and I are together. Got it?”

  I smile. “Got it.”

  Epilogue

  Maddie

  Our house is quiet when I get home except for the tinkling of Stanley’s collar as he comes to greet me at the door. His tail wags hard, beating against the wall with every shake of his hips.

  “Hi boy,” I say, scratching him nice and good behind the ear so that his back leg does a little wiggle-jiggle action. “Where’s your dad?”

  The scraggly mutt we adopted a few years back turns in a circle, excited to have me home.

  “All right, all right. C’mon, let’s go find him.”

  Our small bungalow on the East side of Austin is dark, save for the light in the hallway. I pass the kitchen and peer inside. It’s mostly tidy, but there are a few leftover dishes in the sink from Aiden’s dinner, probably. On days when he has a deadline looming, dishes tend to pile up.

  In the door to our bedroom, I kick off my heels and groan in pleasure when my bare feet touch solid ground again. Soon, I’ll swap my little black dress for a pair of pajamas and everything will be right in the world.

  I don’t usually get home this late, but I had to accompany Elise to a dinner with a client. It’s part of my job now that I’ve moved up in the agency. I don’t mind it either—good food, good company—but I missed Aiden. He’s been busy the last few days, more so than usual.

  I turn back down the hall and Stanley trots beside me. If he ever gets too far ahead, he loops back to me again, as if impatient with how slow I walk compared to him.

  I dip my head into the living room, but Aiden’s not there.

  I flip off the TV and fold a throw blanket, tidying up before I head back out into the hall.

  Our guest bathroom is empty, as is the guest bedroom.

  I hear the telltale sound of a pinging keyboard as I get closer to our small office. The door is mostly closed, but I toe it open another few inches. Aiden doesn’t notice. I doubt he’s noticed that the room is pitch-black either. His eyes have slowly adjusted to it. He sits behind his computer screen, his focus on the words he’s writing. His expression screws up, as if he’s not happy with something, then his fingers start flying again. I listen to the sound of the keyboard as he types rapidly, and it proves as soothing as a lullaby.

  Any residual stress from work and life seem to disappear as I watch him work.

  My husband, the journalist.

  If I didn’t interrupt him, he’d work well into the night. He’s always been like that, chasing words when they seem to flow, no matter the time or the day. He’s missed doctor’s appointments and dinners because he’s so caught up in his work. I have to remind him to eat if he’s really focused. More often than not, I just bring food to him at his desk. When I do, he murmurs a thanks, sometimes not even bothering to glance up at me before I leave the room.

  It’s not always like that, though. Only when he’s really in the zone.

  “I see you standing over there,” he says suddenly.

  I grin.

  “I thought I was being sneaky.”

  “Yeah, well Stanley’s breathing ruined that.”

  The dog leaves my side then, trotting over to Aiden and rising up onto his hind legs so he can prop his front paws on Aiden’s thigh. Aiden rubs his head and glances over at me.

  His gaze drags down me from head to toe, then back again. Our eyes lock and he tips his head to the side.

  “Beautiful.”

  I half-smile, not quite believing him. It’s been a long day at the office, followed by a long dinner. I could use a bath and some sleep.

  “C’mere,” he says, waving me over.

  I push off the doorjamb and curve around his desk, walking up to him. He reaches out for my waist and tugs me down onto his lap. Stanley barks and jumps, feeling left out.

  “How was your day?” Aiden asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear gently.

  “Busy.”

  He hums. “Good busy?”

  I smile and nod.

  His face is only illuminated by the soft glow of the computer screen. He has a five o’clock shadow and tired eyes. He probably hasn’t moved from this spot all day.

  “How’s the article coming along?”

  “I had to completely restart it this morning. I’d somehow lost my thread.”

  “And now?” I ask, flattening my hand against his chest, right above his heart so I can feel its rhythm.

  “It’s better. I think. I won’t know until I read back through it in the morning. It could still be total gibberish.”

  I laugh because I know it’s not. Aiden is ridiculously good at what he does. He still works for the Times. After his impromptu move back to Texas, his editor called and they struck a deal. Aiden could continue to work for them on a freelance basis. He’d take a partial pay cut in exchange for less travel demands. It’s worked out well for us. With our combined s
alaries, we could afford to buy and fix up an older house east of I-35. It needed a lot of love. I cringe thinking about the state the place was in when we first bought it.

  We took our time renovating it, learning to do most of it ourselves as we went along. We ripped out the horrible orange shag carpet and tore away the maroon wallpaper that seemed to dominate every room in the house. We updated the cabinets in the kitchen and bought new appliances. And sure, it could still use some updates. The original hardwood floors creak. The clawfoot tub in the master bathroom leaks on occasion. The closet space isn’t anything to write home about, and every so often the front door shifts and decides it doesn’t want to close properly.

  But we’ve lived here for three years now. This is our home, the place where we adjusted to life as newlyweds, the place where we fell deeper in love, and maybe the place we’ll bring children home to one day. Either that or we’ll get a brother for Stanley. Whatever life brings, we’ll face it together.

  “Are you going to keep working?” I ask.

  He nods. “Just for a little while.”

  I understand. Deadlines are deadlines.

  I try to stand up, to let him get back to it, but he keeps me positioned on his lap.

  I laugh and tell him to let me up.

  “No, it’s fine. I can still write,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist so he can reach his keyboard. He starts typing, and I laugh harder.

  “Aiden.”

  “Shhh. I’m working.”

  Again, I try to wiggle free of his hold, and his arms clamp around me once again.

  “You’ve been gone all day,” he says, sounding wounded. “Just stay for another second.”

  I stop fighting him and sigh in resignation. He’s not going to let me up and I’m too tired to keep attempting it, so I settle against him, getting comfortable before I drop my head onto his shoulder. I inhale his scent and it calms me. He starts typing again, and for a few moments, I watch his fingers as they move over the keyboard, amazed at the words that seem to flow out of him so easily. Doesn’t he need to stop and think about what he’s going to say? How does his brain work that fast?

  Then my eyes start to blur and I close them, just for a second, just to let them rest.

  I listen to the steady thumping of Aiden’s heart. My cheek moves with the rise and fall of his chest, and the continuous rhythm of his breaths starts to make it harder for me to stay awake.

  At some point, when I’m more asleep than awake, Aiden drops a kiss to my forehead and whispers that he loves me.

  I’d tell him the same if I could, but I’m too tired. Too far gone.

  It’ll just have to wait until the morning.

  I hope you enjoyed DATE ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT. For more hilarity, continue reading a sample of my top 20 Amazon bestseller COLDHEARTED BOSS.

  SYNOPSIS

  I’m desperate and destitute when Lockwood Construction rolls into my small town with an offer too good to pass up: high wages to any able-bodied man willing to join their crew.

  Say no more. I throw on baggy clothes, tuck my long hair under a baseball hat, and apply for a job. Unfortunately, my half-baked idea of disguising myself as a guy is flawed from the beginning. As Shakira says, these hips don’t lie.

  Still, I like to think I might have pulled the whole thing off save for one thing:

  I know my boss.

  Last month, we met at a bar, and after a fiery first encounter, it seems we’re destined to be sworn enemies.

  Ethan Stone is ruthless and arrogant, a man I never would have crossed had I known how much he likes to toy with his prey.

  He should just fire me and be done with it. Instead, he decides to make me his personal slave. Oh right, I think they’re calling it personal “assistant” these days.

  It’s torture, all of it—his bad attitude, his ruggedly chiseled face, his desire to grind me into dust.

  Every one of our friction-filled battles burns hotter than the last.

  A girl can only hold out for so long. Soon, I’m bound to go up in flames.

  My objective? Survive the heat long enough to send home a paycheck.

  My real objective? Stop having X-rated fantasies about my coldhearted boss.

  Chapter 1

  Taylor

  I hang up my phone with an angry groan and let my forehead smack against the bar. The wood doesn’t bite as much as I want it to. I was hoping I’d blackout for a couple minutes or—even better—experience a nice bout of amnesia. Nothing too crazy, just maybe I’d forget who I am and where I live and why my life is a bleak desolate nightmare.

  Angrier than ever, I clutch my cheap prepaid phone in my lap and tighten my grip, wondering how close I am to pulverizing it. Surely it’s not that hard. Just…a little…tighter. The phone stares back at me in one piece, gloating. I let out a defeated sigh just as a glass hits the bar near my head.

  “These are on the house.”

  I crane my neck only high enough that I’m eye level with a shot glass full of maraschino cherries. They’re nudged farther in my direction by the surly-looking bartender.

  “Aren’t those always on the house?” I remark with a healthy dose of snark. I’m taking my anger out on the wrong person.

  “For paying customers,” he mutters, reaching to take them back.

  Shaken by the idea that he’s going to revoke his offer and steal what will likely be my only dinner, I sit up quickly and swipe the shot glass away from him, aiming a grateful smile his way. It’s been so long since I’ve felt gratitude that I don’t think I achieve the desired effect. My teeth are clenched in more of a pseudo-snarl rather than an actual smile. He shoots me an odd look and then shakes his head, moving down to the other end of the bar to unpack some new bottles of liquor.

  He’s new here, a bear of a man as old as my father—or as old as my father would be if he were around. I reach for a cherry and pop it into my mouth. The sweet syrup coats my tongue and I wish the usual bartender were here. David gets it. He grew up in Oak Dale too. He would have heard my groan and seen my forehead resting on the bar and known, without having to ask, that another piece of my life had crumbled at my feet. He wouldn’t have bothered with cherries, would have offered me a glass of the hard stuff, and tonight, I might have taken him up on it.

  Then, he would have gone down the list.

  “How’s your mom?” he would have asked.

  “Two years sober next month.”

  “Sister?”

  “Still getting straight As and better now that she’s on a new medication.”

  “Ah, so it’s just life in general getting you down then?”

  I’d have aimed a rueful smile his way. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  He would have laughed at that and then gone on to serve another customer. There are never many in here. Most locals can’t afford marked-up alcohol, which means the bar mostly caters to the travelers staying in the motel next door.

  I glance over my shoulder at the group of suits that were here when I first walked in. There are four of them, as fancy as they come, definitely from out of town. These men are used to smelling rarified air, not trailer trash.

  Comparing our lives would be comical.

  I’ve bounced from odd job to odd job since high school. Currently, I make $7 an hour working as a maid at the motel. That’s below minimum wage, but our manager doesn’t care. He says with tips, it should all break even. It doesn’t. I can’t complain, though, because there are already five of us splitting shifts, and if I don’t like it, there’s someone else ready to take my place.

  These suits probably spend $7 on a cup of coffee every morning without a second thought. They toss the spare change into the tip jar, pick up their macchiato espresso chai teas, and glide through life like it’s a fairytale.

  A girl like me has no use for fairytales. They won’t keep you warm or clothed or well fed.

  The guy who’s sitting in the chair facing the bar catches me watching them. When our eyes lock
, my stomach clenches tight enough to give me instant abs.

  He’s the best-looking one among them, the one I noticed right away.

  In their fairytale, he’s the prince. There is no one on Earth more princely than him. His sharp cheekbones and square, clean-shaven jaw are set off by thick, dark brown hair. He’s tan, as if he spends his days outdoors, but that can’t be right because his suit fits his tall, muscular frame like a glove and his hair is too perfect. Which is it? Are you stuck in a boardroom all day or splitting logs in the woods?

  He doesn’t smile with interest like most guys would when he notices my unabashed perusal. Instead, he raises one dark brow as if to say, Almost done? and I realize I was wrong before. This one’s not the prince in the fairytale.

  He’s the dragon.

  I turn back around, too overwhelmed by my current predicament to feel any sort of embarrassment. So what if he’s beautiful? When your car is falling to pieces and you’re stuck in a dead-end job and the best you can hope for at the end of the day is a crappy couch shoved inside a too-small trailer, beauty of any kind loses its luster.

  My phone rings on my lap and I answer it quickly.

  “Mom?”

  “Hey, why aren’t you home yet?”

  “I’m waiting for Jeremy to come pick me up.”

  “I thought you were getting the car back today?”

  I’m careful with my sigh, not wanting her to hear it. “I was, until the mechanic called this morning and told me there’s more to it than just the busted engine. It needs a ton of work. He spent the day getting a quote together.”

  “How much?”

  I pinch my eyes closed. “Over $400 just for the parts.”

  Her heavy sigh breaks my heart, and I’m glad I didn’t tell her the real number.

  “I’m going to figure it out though,” I insist, sounding sure of myself. “I’ve already started thinking of how we can get the money.”