by Jo Raven
But then my car wouldn’t start. And when I arrived at the shop, it was only to find out Annie, the other girl working here, quit. Chris from the coffee shop next door says she eloped to Vegas with a guy she just met.
Let me note here that today it’s Thursday. I mean, come on. Things can’t go that bad on a Thursday. There’s Mondays for that!
So this guy walks in and the day is getting better already. The clouds clear, the sun come out, and he’s standing there, backlit like an angel, a radiance forming a halo around his dark hair, lighting up his face—and his body.
I adjust my glasses for a better look and let out a shuddery breath.
Oh God, he’s tall. And those shoulders. They seem to fill the shop from side to side. Those narrow hips. Those spectacular biceps, bulging when he lifts a hand to push his hair out of his blue eyes.
Wait a minute. I know those eyes.
The beautiful stranger walks up to me, and I take a step back, because he’s not really a stranger. I know him, very well. As much as it is possible without actually sleeping with him, that is.
J-One. J the runner. J the Powerhouse.
Joel Kingsley.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I blurt, gesturing at the shelves filled with comics and fantasy books and posters.
Because, come on. I may have been in lust with Joel since my first day in college, an infatuation and a crush that didn’t end with this graduation, but can we please address the elephant in the room?
Joel Kingsley is an athlete and a business major. He doesn’t like fiction. He doesn’t like novels. He doesn’t like books. In short, he doesn’t like any of the things I care for. He hangs out in noisy places, flirts with anything in a skirt, and all in all, his trajectory never touches mine.
Never has touched, until now. Not in real life, anyway, no matter what I claim on my blog.
“Hi there,” he says in his smooth, deep voice, and smirks. I bet he didn’t even hear my question. It’s a confident, I-melt-girls’-panties-for-breakfast sort of smirk—and God, it works. I wonder if I brought spares with me. “I bet you’re the right person to help me.”
I can’t reply. My voice will come out all squeaky.
Help him. Sure. Help him undress, maybe. Help combat stress with a deep-tissue massage. Orgasms are known to relax men, aren’t they? I could do that.
“Never been here before. Didn’t know what I was missing,” he says, still looking at me, and oh crap.
He’s even more handsome from up close. Those sky-blue eyes are looking straight at me, turning my knees weak and my pussy wet.
“Ahem.” And here comes the squeak I’ve been trying to avoid. Come on, Candy. You have the power of speech. Use it. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
I clear my throat as he glances around the shop as if realizing for the first time what sort of shop he walked into.
Books. That’s right. It’s what’s normally kept and sold in bookstores. Shocker, I know. I eye him as he turns to take in the shop fully, a hundred-and-eighty turn, his gaze sharp, as sharp as his square, scruffy jaw.
I lick my lips and mentally compose my newest post for my blog. Title: You won’t believe who walked into the bookshop today.
Subtitle: Be very jealous.
Maybe I can snap a quick picture of him with my phone? Just for documentation purposes. I mean, he must be used to it, right? Girls drooling and snapping pics of him.
Did I mention he used to run track at college? I remember all of us sighing whenever he ran by. Cheering. Imagining what could be if he spoke to us, flirted with us. Slept with us.
And he’s grown even more handsome in the past year. Kinda rugged and a lot sexier.
Of course, even back then he slept with anything with a skirt and a heartbeat, and yet we couldn’t hate him. We only wished to be next to land in his bed.
“I’m looking for a book,” he finally says, snapping me back to reality. I force my gaze away from his face, trying to get my brain back into working order.
“A book.”
He nods, and his smirk goes lopsided, allowing a dimple to appear. “About bananas.”
A dimple. And a book… Wait, wait.
“You want a book about bananas?” Someone pinch me. This is surreal. “Would that be, um… for you?”
“What?” He blinks those thick-lashed, blue eyes at me, and I kinda lose the thread, too. “Oh, no. It’s for my roommate.”
Oh lordy. His roommate. The legendary, mythical Jethro Connors.
Well, at least mythical in my world. I’ve only ever seen him in pictures on Joel’s Instagram and Facebook profiles.
Yep, I’m stalking them on Instagram. And Facebook. And every other media available.
So sue me. It’s harmless, I swear. No real-life stalking, which makes the fact this guy’s here all the more exciting. And hey, who can blame a girl for wanting to catch a glimpse of those two pieces of candy, especially when they’re togeth—
“He likes them,” Joel is saying, and I hastily erase fantasy images of him and Jethro… together. Doing anything together. Especially anything involving bananas or similarly shaped objects.
“Well,” I say brightly, “then right this way, please.”
I smile, and I’m probably showing too many teeth because his eyes narrow. Oops. Shark smile. Happens when I get excited, and I look like I want to bite someone.
Not that biting Joel on any hot, muscular part of his body is a bad idea.
Shit.
“A book about bananas coming right up.” My voice comes out sort of muffled, as I purse my lips to minimize the damage and hide my teeth—which are slightly crooked, not too bad, but seem too many for my small mouth. “Rethipes okay?”
“Rethipes?” His brow furrows as he follows me, taking one stride for every two of mine. He’s so tall!
God, that’s hot.
“Um, yes. Recipes.” I untuck my lips and swallow hard, because I’ve fantasized about this guy for so long it’s not even funny, and he’s right here, beside me, asking me for a book about—
“Recipes sound good. He likes smoothies.”
Smoothies. And bananas. I’m updating my files on Jethro Connors tonight—yeah, real online files, okay? Shush—as I reach for the shelf. “Does he like cooking?”
“No, but I do.”
I flick a surprised glance at him and have to physically turn away when my gaze tries to glue itself to the brilliant blue of his eyes, the hardness of his jaw, the strong body stretching his sports jacket in just the right way to make me clench inside.
Insta-boy-gasm. Dammit.
And he likes cooking. Jeezus. That’s it, I’m kidnapping him and keeping him as my personal slave.
“Here you go.” I hand him the book, trying not to look at him as I do so, which results in some unexpected maneuvering—him reaching for the book, me handing it off toward the door, him bumping me with his backpack as he turns to grab it before it drops to the floor—and my eye catches on the big, curved banana on the cover.
I groan inwardly.
Because, let’s face it, no girl has ever had as many twisted erotic fantasies about a guy she’s never talked to before as I have, and I’m dying to ask if he likes bananas, too.
Bananas, peaches, papayas, nuts, eggplants, zucchinis… Hey, how about some Candy?
But before I ask—because yeah, I’m crazy like that, especially with a male specimen such as this one in close proximity, his musky boy-smell turning my brain to mush and my girly bits all excited and warm—his cell rings.
He reaches for it in his back pocket, draws it out, and turns slightly away to answer. “Jet, you dickwad, where were you? We said four, not fucking six.”
He turns his back to me completely and huffs, those broad shoulders rising and falling, and… his ass is spectacular. There’s no other word for it. Tight and pert, and those thick thighs encased in dark jeans, filling them out nicely…
I check my chin for drool. My boobs tingle.
My kitty purrs, asking for some petting.
Later, pet.
“Yeah. Just buying some stuff. No, Ellen was a no show. It was a misunderstanding. No, I’ll be fine. There’s a nerdy chick in glasses helping me out.”
Boom.
Crash.
There goes the fantasy.
“Douchebag,” I mutter under my breath and take off my glasses, then put them back on when everything turns blurry. “Nerdy chick? Seriously?”
He glances back at me, blue eyes wide. “Did you say something?”
I shake my head and worry at a fuchsia-painted nail. Almost rip it off, and still I keep chewing at it like a crazed hyena with a juicy bone. “Ellen, huh?”
He blinks. “Yeah. Just a friend.”
Uh-huh. And even if I ignored that, the “nerdy girl” comment still rattles.
Nothing wrong with being nerdy, surely, I try to reassure myself. After all, it’s probably true—but that’s not the image I wanted to project, not to this guy. Not to the protagonist of my bedtime fantasies. He should find me pretty. Intriguing. Sexy.
Also, did I need a reminder that this guy has been pining after Ellen Davenport, who’s pretty as a picture, the queen of the ball, since forever? Nope, I didn’t. Who would?
Nobody ever figured out why she never went out with him, but he sure is still trying! He only came here hoping to find her, maybe chat her up.
Ugh.
“Hey.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and turns back to me. He lifts a thick, dark brow. “Wanna walk me to the cash register and ring this one up for me?”
“Um, I should stay here.” I wave at the shelves. “These babies need a lot of maintenance.”
Now his other brow goes up—and oh shit, what am I doing? Who wouldn’t want to walk JK to the register and ring up whatever he wants?
“Right.” He lingers a moment longer, rubbing his chin, and my gaze keeps straying to the taut biceps bulging in his arm. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
Because Ellen wasn’t here.
“Have we met before?” he asks before he turns to go, and I’m sorely tempted to inform him about how long I’ve been observing him from near and far at college, of the long nights spent with my friends talking about him and his roommate, about my blog…
Know what? Nope.
“I don’t think we have,” I reply quickly.
“My mistake then.” But his voice is smooth, deep. Unrepentant.
Or maybe just polite and uninterested.
He turns to go and I want to follow him. Or hide behind the shelves. Or scream.
This is not how I imagined my meeting with Joel Kingsley would go.
Okay, you know what else? Forget about that blog post. Forget about all this. I’ll just pretend this day never happened. I busy myself with a display, try to appear busy, anyway, while he chats up Donna at the counter.
Though I do snap a pic of his amazing ass as he walks out of the shop, the banana book in his hand, his dark hair long enough to brush the back of his corded neck.
Nerdy. He called me nerdy.
I’ll show you nerdy. I’m more than you can handle, baby. I’m a sex bomb.
I hate him.
No, I don’t. I’m so confused.
Just goes to show: handsome men are best watched and lusted over from a distance.
“Whatcha doing?” my roommate Brylee asks, wandering into the living room of our small apartment, rubbing her ginger hair on a white, fluffy towel, the rest of her clad in a sexy little number.
Brylee and I couldn’t be any different.
Did you guess?
“Blog.” I delete the line I’d written and start again. My latest post got me hundreds of thousands of views, and happy comments. I am a blog goddess, as it turns out. Girls love reading about my imaginary adventures with my two fantasy boyfriends. I just hope to God nobody, and especially not said boyfriends, ever finds out.
I reread what I wrote, frowning. He gave me a smoldering look as I handed him the book about bananas…
“Bananas?” Brylee wrinkles her tiny nose, until it looks like a wrinkled white grape. It does, I swear. Those white seedless ones.
“I know, Bry.” I sigh. “I swear to God.”
“Wait, is this real? He came to the shop?”
I point at the pic I’d uploaded. “I gots Proof. With a capital P.”
“Are those… buns?”
“His buns,” I clarify and enlarge the pic, which, granted, is a little blurry, but still presenting Joel’s ass in all its muscular glory. “In jeans. Unfortunately. There should be a law preventing hot guys from wearing clothes inside stores. I have been thinking about this,” I say, warming up to my topic. “Maybe put some lockers there, with a sign, We only serve those in Bare Hot Buns.”
“You took a pic of his butt.”
“Yeah, okay. I totally did. And if I could get away with taking one of his front, I would have.”
“Right.” She straightens, pats my head. “I see you’re back to writing about your imaginary life with two boyfriends. I thought you were over that.”
“Why would you think that?” Seriously. “A good fantasy is hard to find.”
“I mean the blog.”
“What’s wrong with my blog, huh? People love it.” And that’s a huge understatement. I mean, I was approached by companies to advertise their stuff in my stories, for a good price, too, and I’m thinking of saying yes. Why the heck not, right?
“I just don’t get it, is all. Half the time you review books, and the other half you talk about these two guys as if they’re real.”
“They are real, Bry.”
“Yeah, well, not in the way you describe them.” She leans over my shoulder again, scrolling back to previous posts of mine and reading out loud: “He reaches for J-Two’s shirt, yanks it open and whispers, I need you to touch me, need you to blow my—”
“Hey.” I shove her back and snap my laptop shut. “Cut it out.”
“Why?”
“You’re too young for this.”
Truth is, having someone I know read my words out loud is awful. Anonymous readers reading my words far, far away from me is a completely different thing.
“What if they read it? Those two guys? And what if they realize it’s about them? What if they find out you want to do them both? Christ, aren’t you embarrassed for wanting two guys to do you?” Brylee says.
“I’m not. Why would I be? Nothing wrong with that. Why are you trying to shame me for what I want?”
My mom raised me to accept myself. I owe her for that, I guess. Even if she thinks we’re best buddies and she can tell me things about her sex life with my dad I really don’t want to know.
“I’m not.”
“Sure you are. It’s just a fantasy, anyway.” And I’m getting defensive, because I want this too badly, and if this is the only way I’ll get it… I mean, I don’t know these guys, apart from their appearance and the fact they live together. As friends. Apparently.
They may be assholes. Arrogant dicks, as Joel’s comment at the store seems to indicate— sadly.
Big dicks. Big, hard, thick—
“Getting a guy, babe, needs work,” Brylee mutters, and I duck before she pats my head again like I’m her poodle. “Hard work. Hours at the gym. Hours agonizing on what to wear. Relentless pursuit. Imagine chasing after two. Unless you want this story to remain fiction.”
I shake my head.
“You know there’s no way this could become reality,” I mutter. “You know it, Bry. Even if they were interested in me, which they’re not, they would never…” Never do a threesome, never touch and kiss each other, never want… What I want. “They’re like brothers!”
Everyone knows that. My friends use it as a running expression at college, and that’s long after Joel graduated and left to get a job: Friends like J & J. The Twins. The Bros. Best friends, practically family. It’s the way they are together, that closeness and familiarity you can’t fake.
> And although finding out stuff about Joel was pretty easy—good family, a sister who works for the National Runaway Safeline, bunch of friends at a local gym he apparently spars with—his other half, so to say, Jethro, is a total mystery.
A sexy, badass mystery with spiky black hair and a wide grin and scruff and tattoos and…
“You need a makeover!” Brylee declares as she marches out to prepare for another night out, while I open my laptop again and stare at my unfinished post. “And then pursuit!”
A makeover. Yeah… so I may be somewhat nerdy. So what? Is that so bad?
I wish my buddy, Connie, were online, to tell her all about what happened and fangirl and rant and sigh together. Connie gets me, unlike Brylee, who mostly wants to fix me.
Brylee doesn’t know me.
You know nothing, Jon Snow.
Pushing my glasses up my nose, I type two words in my post, delete them, and finally smile as I launch into my steamy, improved encounter with J-One. On screen, he can be whatever I want him to be—do whatever I want him to do. He can be loving and wild and forceful and into me, and into J-Two, and make us both come and then spoon us in bed while a fire burns in the fireplace and a storm rages outside.
Yeah, perfect, I think, sitting back and surveying my post before I hit “publish.” Hey, what can I say? Can’t beat fictional boyfriends. They’re the best.
“Good night,” Brylee mutters right behind me, almost giving me a frigging heart attack, and giggles. “Don’t overdo it with the boyfriends. Don’t want you worn out tomorrow.”
“Why? What’s tomorrow?” I’m still trying to catch my breath while glaring at her perfectly made-up face, perfect dress, perfect—well, you get the picture.
I mean, I do like Brylee, don’t get me wrong. I really, really do, even if she drives me nuts. She’s an amazing friend. But sometimes, when I’m being honest with myself in the dark hours of night, I wish she were a little bit less perfect, know what I mean?
“You forgot. I knew you would.” Brylee wags a finger in my face. “Tomorrow. Park. Concert. With Ryan. Ring any bells?”
Yep. Ringing all over the place. “I don’t know, Bry.”
“It will be great. You need to get out more. Get over Liam.”