by Sara Ney
“Got anything to drink?”
“In the fridge—want to help yourself while I run to my room and throw on some fuzzy socks?”
“Sure.”
I watch her retreating form as it sashays in the direction of a hallway before peeling my eyes away, making my own way to the fridge, bending to peer inside.
“What the hell?” I mutter, because, holy shit, her fridge is better stocked than mine.
Fruit, vegetables. Bagels, juice, and pasta. Lunch meat in the drawer. Bottled water. Bottled mocha frappe. Two bottles of white wine. Small boxes of orange juice. I poke what looks like leftovers and identify it by picking up the container and turning it sideways: hamburger patties. A container of spaghetti sauce and a separate one of noodles.
I could get used to a fridge like this.
Ten minutes later, Scarlett returns. I’m seated in the center of her couch, flipping through the menu on her television, when she reenters the room, crossing in front of me to claim her own spot on the sofa. Whatever perfume she’s wearing has me sniffing the air like a damn bloodhound who just caught a whiff of the bitch at a neighboring farm.
She’s changed into gray yoga pants and a gray t-shirt that says I don’t know what I’m training for but I hope it never happens and, trying not to stare too hard at her chest, I chuckle.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she flops down cross-legged on the far end of the couch, boobs bouncing when she settles into the cushions.
So bouncy I suspect she’s not wearing a bra, and I strain to locate her nipples.
Drag a palm down my face, needing to let out a puff of pent-up air, arm going to the back of the couch. Lean back into the sofa, letting my large body sink deeper into the plush cushions.
Hesitate before putting my legs up, needing to hide this impending boner in my jeans.
“Do you mind if I put my feet on the coffee table?”
Scarlett’s gaze meets mine and I note the color of her eyes: blue. Black lashes flutter, eyes sliding down my denim-clad legs, hesitating on the bulge in my pants, landing at my feet.
I wiggle my toes and arch a brow when her eyes fly back to my face, cheeks blushing as I flirt with her.
Flirting with the girl my friends called Cock Blocker. Sitting in her house, eating her food, watching her TV. Walking her home and enjoying every goddamn second of her company.
Man the guys have a field day with this.
“Sure, you can put your feet up. Make yourself comfortable.”
I gawk at her then, noticing that her eyes aren’t just blue—they’re deeper, darker, not navy, but…muddy, and Jesus, I’m doing the shittiest job describing them. I should stop.
She clears her throat when I stretch my long torso, spreading the long wingspan of my arms farther across the back of the couch, lips set, complacent. Head thumping back against the wall and hitting it by accident.
Ouch.
I let my eyelids fall closed.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me, Rowdy Wade,” Scarlett warns.
I grin. “I wouldn’t dream of it, because you’re going to feed me pizza soon. It’s so quiet in here though, it might be hard not to.”
Really nice and really fucking quiet. Plus, Scarlett has food.
“Now you know why I love staying home instead of going out. I can do what I want—sing as loud as I want, not do dishes, walk around naked.”
I raise my eyes, interested. “Do you now?”
“Do whatever I want? Heck yeah.”
“No, no, tell me more about this nudity. Do you walk around doing housecleaning and shit buck naked? Paint me a visual, and don’t spare any details.”
A pretty blush creeps up her neck. “I mean, yeah, sometimes. Doesn’t everybody?”
Uh, no. Not everyone walks around naked.
But seeing her like this, in her natural environment, removed from the porch of the house on Jock Row—knowing she probably isn’t wearing a bra even though I can’t see her nipples—my imagination takes hold faster than I can field a ground ball. Drags me by the balls and leads me on a path I probably shouldn’t be going down, skipping my dick merrily all the way.
Behind us in the kitchen, a timer dings.
I watch Scarlett rise off the sofa and pad into the kitchen. Hear a few drawers open and close. Oven creak open, one pizza sliding out after the other. I look over my shoulder, watching her cut them into slices in precise movements and slide the pieces onto two plates.
“You need help in there?”
“Nope, I got it. You just sit there and relax.”
Is this girl for real? I’ve been here less than an hour and already she’s spoiling me rotten.
Scarlett returns moments later carrying two plates topped with pizza. Hands one to me, a goddess bearing gifts.
“Can we talk about this naked thing again?”
“I don’t understand why you’re so fascinated by it.”
I shoot hear a look that says, Really?
“Sorry, but I just can’t let the subject go. And for the record, I have a roommate, so—no, I don’t walk around naked.”
Scarlett’s still standing in front of me, holding her plate. Leans toward me, dipping to hand me the pizza until the neckline of her shirt drops, to mutter, “But you walk around naked in the locker room, right?”
“Oh yeah—for sure.”
“Mmm.” Scarlett draws out the sound, like she’s just popped something savory into her mouth and it tastes like heaven. “All those athletic, naked, toned bodies showering in one spot.”
Whoa. Hold up.
My head lifts. “You care about athletic, toned bodies?”
In case she hasn’t fucking noticed, there’s a perfectly serviceable male specimen sitting right on her goddamn living room sofa that she’s barely spared a second glance at the entire time we’ve been here.
If Scarlett keeps acting like I’m resistible, quite frankly, I’m going to become insulted.
“I mean, just because I’m not on Jock Row with the sole purpose of finding my next lay like some girls doesn’t mean my brain isn’t triggered by the sight of your friends’ physical…attributes. Believe me, it’s been triggered.” She laughs. “I’m human for god’s sake.” She grabs a slice of pizza. Takes a bite of its end and slowly chews, thoughtfully. “And anyway, you brought it up.”
Something I’ll later identify as jealousy wells up and makes me blurt out, “I said nothing about wet dudes in the locker room.”
“Wet dudes.” Her brows shoot up. Wiggle.
I narrow my eyes, irritated. “Would you knock that shit off?”
Jesus. Scarlett is kind of a pervert.
She bends her torso forward, toward me, and I finally get the boob shot I’ve been looking for: cleavage with the shadow of her nipples.
While I’m gawking down her shirt, Scarlett lowers her voice conspiratorially to a near whisper; obviously, I’m hanging on her every word.
“You wanna to hear a fun little factoid about women?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“We’re more perverted than guys.”
Bullshit. “How is that possible?”
She leans back, relaxing against a pillow with a satisfied sigh, queen of her domain. “We just are.” Her eyes rake up and down my torso, flickering briefly over the bulge of my crotch. “Trust me.”
I spread my legs a little wider. “Not buying it.”
“Just because we don’t run around making innuendos and grabbing our junk doesn’t mean some of us aren’t closet perverts.”
My eyes skim over her junk.
I study her hard. “So what you’re saying is, you’re a pervert.”
“Kind of.” Affirmative nod. “Eighty percent.”
“What a load of horse crap.”
Shrug. “You don’t have to believe me.” Takes a dainty bite of her crust, her dimple contracting with every nibble. “You have no idea what goes through my head half the time.”
“Oh yeah?” Did
my voice just fucking crack? Jesus. “Like what?”
“Pfft, like I’d tell you.”
“You’re full of shit, that’s why.”
“I have nothing to prove.” Casually, she takes another bite of pizza, brows raised, smiling while she chews. “Except…”
She swallows, takes her sweet time, chugging a sip of water and setting the bottle down on the coffee table.
“Except?” Goddammit, I wish she’d finish her sentence and put me out of my misery.
“Well.” Her pink tongue darts out, licking a crumb off the corner of her mouth. “Don’t think for one second that while you’re throwing down words like hard, or taste, or moist, my mind hasn’t flown straight into the gutter and I don’t want to laugh like a teenage boy.” She licks her lips again and I swear it’s just to taunt me. “And you know, those aren’t even pervy words. They’re ordinary adjectives.”
“Never would have guessed.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. I have an amazing poker face. We should play cards sometime.”
Damn right she has a good poker face; I wouldn’t be able to tell you what she was thinking right now if my life depended on it.
“Scarlett?”
“Hmm?” Crunch, crunch. Swallow.
“How much would you be willing to pay a psychic threatening to tell me everything you’re thinking right now?”
She pretends to mull it over, setting her plate down on the coffee table, wiping her hands on a napkin. Leans back against the couch cushions and steeples her fingers.
“Hmm, that’s a very good question. I don’t know—twenty bucks?”
My mouth falls open. “Twenty bucks? That’s it?”
“That’s all I have in my wallet.” A dainty shoulder rises and falls as she graces me with a lazy smile. “How much would you pay?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“You’re the one who asked it. Just tell me what you’re thinking about right this second and I’ll leave you alone.” Her challenge is issued with a cocky smirk.
“All right.” I pause, and we chew, staring each other down.
“I’ve been obsessed with seeing your nipples since I realized you weren’t wearing a bra.”
Scarlett chokes on the pizza crust currently in her mouth, bending at the waist and coughing so hard I’m forced to pound gently on her back. “That’s not”—cough—“what”—cough—“I thought”—cough, cough—“you were gonna say.” Cough. “Oh my god, I’m dying.”
She feels around for the water, which I place into her palm.
Red faced, she finally sits up, glaring at me. “You can’t say shit like that when I have food in my mouth.”
I imagine other things in her mouth, but not wanting to cross any lines, I force my lips shut.
“I dare you to show me the fourth screenshot in your phone.”
Scarlett scoops her cell off the coffee table, unlocks it with her thumb, and scrolls to her gallery. Counts four pictures in, pausing.
I smirk. “Too embarrassed to show me?”
Rolling her eyes, Scarlett taps on the screen and holds the entire phone in my direction.
It’s a list of five Truth or Dare questions, and my eyes go down the list, reading each one at a time.
“Did you save this for us?”
She hesitates. “Yes.”
I take the phone from her hand, raising it to eye level. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Don’t you think this game should be renamed ‘Interrogation or Humiliation’?”
Scarlett laughs. “Yes.”
“Okay, first question.” I gaze down at the list. “What was the last lie you told?”
She purses her lips, debating. Gnaws on her bottom lip. “Last week when you asked me how screwed I’d be if my internal monologue was made audible? And I said on a scale of one to ten, it was a five—I was lying.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I hold out the phone so she can see it and ask the next question, but she gives it a gentle push. “I don’t need to see it—I’ve looked at the list so many times I have them memorized.” Her head tilts. “Truth or dare?”
I want to say dare on the off chance she’ll dare me to kiss her, or fuck her, or play strip poker, but I go with truth instead so I don’t come off as eager as I’m beginning to feel.
Her blue eyes meet mine. “What’s the first physical feature you look for in someone you’re attracted to?”
Dimples. Tits. Long, dark hair. “Height.”
“Really?” She’s taken aback, and it’s obvious from her wide eyes that she doesn’t believe me. “Huh. That surprises me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I thought you’d say big boobs or something.”
Pfft, like I’d admit that shit out loud. I’m not a savage; I have some fucking manners.
“Not everyone’s boobs are showing when you first meet them,” I point out cryptically.
Hers weren’t.
“True.”
It’s my turn now to ask her, “Truth or dare?”
One. Two.
Six long seconds tick by.
“Dare.”
I glance at the phone. Glance up at Scarlett. “I dare you to show me your favorite body part.”
Those smooth cheeks of hers get pink. “All of it, or just point to it?”
I go for broke. “All of it.”
“All right.”
Scarlett sets her plate on the table in front of us, standing, flattening a palm down her stomach. Turns her back to me, slowly hooking her thumbs inside the waistband of her yoga pants.
Drags them down her hips, three fucking feet in front of me, peach skin emerging in full view, gray pants stopping right under the swell of her butt cheeks.
White thong, ass smooth enough to slap, I’m only graced with three short seconds to gape before those gray pants get yanked back up, waistband snapping.
And that’s a mental image I’ll have burned into my fucking skull forever.
My Adam’s apple gets lodged in my damn throat, along with the slice of pizza I just took a bite of.
“Your favorite feature is your own ass.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. I like your ass, too,” I joke, noting the time and setting the phone on the coffee table, putting an end to the game.
No good can come of this.
“You want to watch a movie? Or are you going to head home?”
It’s still early, and I have no desire to leave…and she’s inviting me to stay longer.
I nod. “Yeah, let’s watch a movie. I don’t feel like walking.”
Scarlett
“Rowdy.”
I smooth the back of my hand tenderly down his cheek, leisurely over his laugh lines. Over the coarse, unshaven stubble of a day’s growth, bristly against my skin.
Rough, in a ruggedly sexy way.
His skin is soft near his eyes, lashes fanned out against his cheekbones as he deeply slumbers, the perfect slope of his nose a path I take with the tip of my thumb.
There are freckles there.
Brown specks I never would have noticed if I wasn’t this close, studying every nuance from inches away. Never would I have the nerve if he was awake, although I suspect we’re reaching that point.
I study his sideburns next.
The high arch of his tan cheekbones.
Both his buff arms are folded across his chest, shoulders wide. Neck tipped back, the column of thick and strong and sexy, Adam’s apple still in the center of his throat. That, too, is covered with dark stubble.
I run my palm along his skin, admiring the curve of his lips and strong, square jaw.
He is all man.
And I showed him my butt cheeks.
Rowdy’s lips move, startling the shit out of me. “You know they have names for people who watch other people sleep.”
I pull my hand back like it’s been set on fire. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
He crac
ks an eyelid. “Creepers.”
“I’m not creeping on you.” I am. “I said your name three times and patted your cheek twice.”
“You said it once.”
“Well why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you feel good.”
He shifts on the couch, readjusting his weight. Moving his arms to his sides, letting his hands fall to the cushions. Cracks his beautiful green eyes open and shoots me a sleepy smile.
“What are you staring at so hard?”
I boop the tip of his nose then run it in tiny circles. “These freckles right here on the bridge of your nose.”
Now he’s more alert. “I don’t have freckles.”
“Yes you do. Right…” He watches me trace them with the tip of my finger, counting a few. “Here.” I tap ever so gently, the barest touch. “And here.” Tap. “And a few here, and you don’t have to sound so put-out about it.”
They’re the most adorable things I’ve ever seen, and my new favorite thing about him.
“Freckles are for sissies.”
My laugh is low. “Then you should wear sunscreen.”
“Sunscreen is for sissies.”
I cluck my tongue to hold back a laugh. “Shame shame, I always wear sunscreen. That’s why I’m so pale.”
Warily, he watches me with half-hooded eyes, still sleepy. “Did I miss the movie?”
“You passed out about twenty minutes into it.”
“Why did you let me?”
“I didn’t have the heart to wake you up.”
“Did I snore?”
“No. Why, do you usually snore?”
“Only when I’m really tired.”
“Maybe you should start staying home on the weekends instead of hanging out on the front porch of the baseball house.”
“And shirk my civic duty?” The lazy smile he gives me sends the thousand butterflies inside my tummy spiraling out of control. “I have to protect the public from you.”
FIFTH FRIDAY
“The Friday Where She Doesn’t Show Up.”
Rowdy
Where the hell is Scarlett?
I check my phone again, then look out into the dark neighborhood, watching the sidewalk. Check for the familiar sight her black winter coat, earmuffs, and scuffed Chuck Taylors—but there is still no sign of her.