Dylan grinned as he added, “But Mr. Winkie does have a tendency to turn into Pinocchio when provoked.”
Okay, the conversation had just escalated from walking around with your skirt tucked in the back of your underwear the one and only time you decide to wear a thong kind of embarrassing, to period leaking mortification. And yes, I’m speaking from experience. The wonderful experience of disaster dating. Needless to say, I hadn’t received a second invitation for a date from those men.
In fact, they left town soon after, leaving me with no one but the geriatrics to choose from. Even I wasn’t that desperate. Though maybe I should have been, then I wouldn’t have fallen for Bob when he’d rolled into town and swept me off my feet. My biggest disaster to date. Although, this date with Hot Britches wasn’t looking too good.
I took a deep breath, deciding if I were going to face my fears and succeed at this project, I’d have to learn to have these conversations with anyone, including men like Dylan. “Um, standing at attention, it’s a pickle,” I blurted.
“Okay, so I guess if I had a pickle, I’d probably have some serious issues.”
“How so?” I folded my napkin in my lap, wishing I could whip out my notebook and start writing without looking strange. Who was I kidding, this entire conversation went beyond strange.
“Put it this way, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get naked,” he answered.
I snorted. “That didn’t seem to bother Flasher Freak.”
“Yeah, well, Flasher Freak’s a freak. And his pickle could be what made him that way.” Dylan disappeared again, this time returning with a large bowl of cooked pasta, and the scents of garlic, basil, and oregano filled the room. “Besides, he could be suffering from Short Man Syndrome.”
“What’s that?” I plopped my elbows on the table. This night had potential after all. I tried not to frown. My idea of an evening with a hot guy having potential consisted of talking about his winkie, instead of using it. I sighed. In a word--pathetic.
“Some people say that a short man is so cocky because his Mr. Winkie is... well, let’s put it this way. I have a buddy who’s--God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this--who’s a pickle, and he’s so damned cocky you’d swear he was packin’ a... a...”
“A zucchini?” I supplied.
“Exactly.” Dylan paused, then arched a brow at me.
“I have a fondness for produce. Too many years of working in the produce department of my parents’ store, I guess. And it doesn’t help that they never used the anatomically correct names for private parts. Gotta love that Irish Catholic upbringing.”
His brow arched higher, but the corner of his lips hitched up a notch. “Well, that explains a lot.”
I glanced away. “Can I help with anything?”
He chuckled. “Nope, just sit tight. I’ve got it covered.” He wandered back into the kitchen, giving me a great view of his buns. His perfect buns. No insecurity there, I’ll bet. I took a gulp of wine this time.
Note to self: Produce conversations get easier with alcohol.
“Speaking of zucchinis, I’ve kind of noticed you’re rather, um, tall,” I called out from the dining room. “Does that mean you have Tall Man Syndrome?” Lord, he must think I’m a freaking nympho.
He returned with a loaf of steaming Italian bread and a devil of a grin. “Well, I am tall. Have big hands, too, but I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.” That darn crooked grin spread even wider across his face, melting me like the hot butter spread across the massive loaf.
“Hmmm, I don’t know. You seem rather cocky to me, chief. And according to you, cocky equals small. Maybe you’re hiding a pickle, and that’s just a sock.” My gaze dipped between his legs, giving me the sudden urge to fall off the face of the earth. This had just gotten really weird, even for me.
He grinned. “My pants aren’t that tight, and the only socks I have on me are the ones on my feet. The word you’re looking for is ‘confident’. There’s a difference.” He set the huge loaf right in front of me. “Big difference. And I thought it was Dukeypoo?”
I glanced at the loaf. In your dreams, Zuc. He wasn’t that well-endowed. “Yeah, well, Dukeypoo, I wouldn’t be comparing myself to that loaf of bread. Looks to me like he’s been castrated, too.”
Dylan laughed, the rat, then disappeared and came back carrying a bowl of tossed salad. “Anything else?”
“Actually, yes. Does your Mr. Winkie give you any problems?” I managed to choke out, and he gave me a level stare. “Hey, you asked.” God, this project bit the big one. Ooops. That hadn’t come out the way I meant. It basically sucked. Like that was any better. Good Lord, I couldn’t even think without getting myself into trouble.
“Well, that’s a question for Mr. Winkie.” He winked. “Why don’t we ask him?” He set the salad on the table and looked down at himself. “Hey, buddy, the nice lady wants to know if you’re having any problems?”
Darned if I didn’t join him. “Oh, I’d say he’s responding just fine,” I croaked, yanking my mortified gaze up to meet his twinkling one.
“You asked. I answered.” He pulled out his seat and sat.
“And then some.” I fanned my cheeks. “So, um, does having a zucchini ever worry you that it won’t fit, or that you might hurt your partner?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why? Are you afraid of it?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I... I...” How did I tell him without him thinking I was using him? I was using him, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to know it. I had taken Gloria’s suggestion--turn the tables on the opposite gender--but I was still a woman, which meant I had a conscience. “I’m not afraid of ‘it,’ I just haven’t had very good experiences when it comes to men. Guess I’m trying to figure out what makes them tick.” At least I hadn’t lied.
He shifted in his chair and eyed me suspiciously. Okay, so the light, playful tone of the conversation had just taken a nosedive to the serious side. Don’t worry, pal, I’m not going to burden you with my problems.
“You? I can’t imagine you having problems with men.” The sincerity in his eyes threw me, and I wondered if he’d heard about the scandal. Could he be different from all the other men I’d met and actually like me for me?
I mentally shook myself. How would he have heard of the scandal? Paranoia had set in. The chances that he had heard of the scandal were slim, but I wasn’t willing to gamble with my fresh start. “You have no idea.”
“So, you just want to know what makes me tick, that’s all?”
“Yeah, you know. What kinds of things guys think about. I don’t understand the male species at all. It’s like dealing with an alien.”
“Man, I know the feeling. I thought I understood the female population, until I met this shrink.” He shook his head, and a pained expression briefly flashed across his face. “She gave me the runaround, keeping me out of work much longer than I had to be, all because she had an ulterior motive. I don’t think I’ll ever trust a shrink again, at least a female one, anyway.” He met my gaze head-on. “So what do you want to know?”
Well, that killed any ideas I might have been entertaining. I had no intention of becoming a shrink, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t help me if he knew the information I was gathering was going to put be in a psychology project. I couldn’t tell him about my project now. Guilt crept down my spine. “I want to know when we’re going to eat. The food smells delicious, and I’m starved.”
“Me, too. Guess I got distracted by the unique dinner conversation.” He smiled, his sparkling sapphires roaming over my face and then dropping lower to skim over the pale-green sweater molding my bumps with nipples. “Nice sweater, by the way. It matches your eyes.”
“How would you know? My eyes are up here, Detective.” I crossed my arms over my chest, sending him mixed signals, I was sure. But I had to. My willpower had dwindled, big time.
Frowning, he cleared his throat. “Better dig in before the food gets cold. It’s my specialty.”
He scooped a moderate portion of thin spaghetti onto his plate, adding a helping of homemade sauce with meatballs, peppered with just the right seasonings. Dishing up some tossed salad, he poured on a dollop of dressing and snagged a slice of toasted Italian garlic bread. He opened his mouth as though to eat, but paused, his jaw unhinged as he gaped at my plate.
I’d served myself a heaping portion of spaghetti and had drenched it with a mound of sauce. Then I’d loaded ranch dressing onto my salad and had taken my bread, which already had butter on it, and slathered it with an additional layer. I dug into my meal with gusto. Couldn’t help it. It wasn’t macaroni and cheese, but it was pasta. Close enough.
I stared at him, with a long noodle dangling from my mouth. As I slowly sucked the noodle until it disappeared, I felt pink roses blossom across my skin. “What?” I gave him an uncertain half-smile.
“Nothing. You’re a woman who doesn’t put up pretenses. If you’re hungry, you eat. It’s refreshing.” He licked his sexy lips. “Except you have sauce,” he reached out and ran his thumb across the corner of my mouth, “right here,” then lifted his thumb to his own mouth and licked it off.
God, I wanted to entertain those ideas I’d had earlier in a big way. A veeeery big way. So not smart. “Th-Thank you,” I said on a whoosh of air, then I snatched my napkin and scrubbed my face. Picking up my fork, I continued my meal in silence, cleaning my plate in record time. “That was amazing. Thanks for everything. It’s certainly been... interesting.”
I stood, but he reached out and grabbed my hand. His fingers threaded between mine. Not a good idea, a bad idea, a monstrous--bigger than his feet--mistake of an idea, my brain hammered against my skull. Helplessly, I stared down at our hands. His were large and dark, mine small and pale. I sensed that he knew he unsettled me, but it didn’t stop him.
“How about dessert?” he asked.
“You made dessert?”
Chuckling, he released my hand and headed into the kitchen. “Cooking, I can do. Baking, however, is not one of my strengths.” He returned carrying two large slices of cake. “The corner bakery makes one hell of a dessert called Death By Chocolate.” He set the slices on the table, picked up my fork and cut off a generous bite, then lifted it. “Here, try some.”
I couldn’t do this, because if I did, I’d be opening the door to my biggest disaster yet. My lips ignored my brain and parted of their own accord. He slipped the fork inside, and I closed my mouth around it. My eyes rolled back and my lids fluttered shut.
“Damn,” he muttered. “How can you make something as simple as eating cake look erotic?”
I opened my eyes and struggled to maintain control. His glossed-over gaze locked with mine, and the undeniable desire sizzled between us. You can’t do this, Callie Anne. Not again. “Did I mention I love chocolate? A-Almost as much as pasta,” I stuttered.
Moaning deep in my throat, I worked my mouth slowly and then swallowed. Sticking my tongue out, I licked the remaining crumbs, not about to miss a single morsel. He opened his mouth, but didn’t say a word, just looked as dazed as I felt. If he didn’t kiss me soon, I would implode. The wine had weakened my resistance to the point where I was ready to ignore all the warning sirens screeching through my brain.
So much for control. Dessert hadn’t nearly satisfied me, and that fish kiss sure as heck hadn’t. I wanted more. I wanted him. I sighed, then leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his.
Bad idea.
I stared into Hot Britches’ surprised, yet heavy-lidded, electric-blue eyes and started to pull back, but his lips began to move over mine. Magic. Pure magic. My eyes slipped closed, and a powerful longing zipped through me. I couldn’t let this happen, could I? I broke the kiss, then he licked my mouth with his tongue.
Sweet Jesus. I mentally made the sign of the cross.
I couldn’t speak. His nearness overwhelmed me. He slid his hand up my back and plunged it into my hair, looking at me in question. My heart skipped a beat. I wanted him to kiss me again, bad idea or not. He stared into my eyes, and I saw a desire as powerful as my own. Grabbing his face again, I pulled his head down to mine, then laid another one on him.
His goatee felt like silk, caressing my cheeks and chin. I never thought I’d like a man with facial hair, but on Dylan, it fit. Kissing him was pure heaven, but one of us had to at least try to stop this madness.
“I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” he whispered. His voice sounded husky, then he traced my lips with his tongue.
“B-But I’m not ready.” I gave one last ditch effort. I didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want to be in another relationship anytime soon. Maybe never.
“No pressure. It’s just a kiss.” His mouth swooped down over mine this time.
No pressure. Just a kiss. I could handle that. I moaned, and he deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue inside to circle my own. Shock waves coursed through my mouth, rippled down my back, beat in places it had no business beating again, then turned my legs to rubber and curled my toes. Spice came to mind. He tasted like sinful spices and decadent chocolate all rolled into one intoxicating package.
I never wanted him to stop.
He cradled my face in his masculine hands, and I felt cherished and special. My arms wound around his neck all by their little lonesome, then my hands slipped under his short ponytail. As my body bumped into his, I noted how well we fit together. For the first time ever, I felt thankful for being tall. I should have stopped him, but I ceased to think when his palms slid down my back and cupped my big ole insecurity, pulling me to his cue stick.
Rack’em, shot through my brain.
Good Lord, I had a problem. And right now, that problem was fondling my backside. The zucchini I felt pressed up against me was further proof that he in no way resembled little David. Thank God. I didn’t care what anyone said.
Size mattered.
Wait a minute. Are we moving? I thought as he slowly, but surely, backed me down the hall toward what could only be his bedroom. I tore myself away from him, my chest heaving as fast as his. “What happened to no pressure? Just a kiss?”
“That’s all we did was kiss.” He tried for a smile but couldn’t quite pull one off.
“Riiiight.” Even if his kiss had rocked me right down to my core, things were moving way too fast. I couldn’t do this. Not again. And not with him. He was different, somehow. I didn’t think I could handle being used by him.
I stepped back, and we stood on opposite sides of the wall, staring at each other in the middle of his hallway. I didn’t know what to say, so I tore my gaze away from his and tried to clear my head.
He spoke first. “About that kiss--”
“Bad idea, I know. Can I use your bathroom?”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but he pointed down the hall by his bedroom.
Once inside, I closed the door and leaned my head against it, fighting to catch my breath. He was a cop, not a loser. And he’d seemed sincere when he’d said he wanted to help me figure men out. I had to admit, up until this point, he’d been a gentleman. Could I blame him for responding after I talked about winkie sizes and then kissed him? Maybe he was different.
I turned around to wash my hands and froze.
Or maybe he was a scumbucket like all the other men I’d dated. I gritted my teeth and stared at a copy of a girlie magazine in the bathroom trash. Every time I dared to have hope, the frustrating species let me down, reinforcing what I’d already discovered too many times to count. Men could not be trusted.
I stepped out of the bathroom and his open bedroom door caught my eye. There was a desk pushed up against a wall with a computer on it, and an issue of another girlie magazine along with a couple of nudie pictures lying beside it.
Disappointed and totally disillusioned, I looked down the hall. I didn’t see any sign of Dylan, so I walked over to the desk and picked up a piece of paper. My hand shook. Oh, God, not again. INTERNET PORNOGRAPHY was scrawled across the top in capital letters
, with a list of websites below.
No wonder he’d been so willing to take part in that conversation. Feeling like I’d been sucker-punched, I fled his bedroom and made a beeline for the living room. I might have been overreacting, but after Bob the sex addict, I was through giving men the benefit of the doubt. At least this time it had only taken me a week instead of six months to discover his true nature.
“Callie, I’d like to--”
“I’m sure you would.”
“Huh?” When I didn’t answer, he kept talking, “What I wanted to know is if you’d like to--”
“I’d like to go home.”
He blinked. “But I thought--”
“You thought wrong. I’m not that desperate, Detective Cabrizzi. I don’t want to go to bed with a pervert like you.”
“Pervert?” He stiffened, hardening his jaw. “You really do have problems figuring men out, because you’ve got me all wrong.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I know exactly who you are. Sorry, pal, not interested.”
“Neither am I.” His laser beams had cooled to icicles.
“Good, then we’re on the same page. I’m grateful for the job you got me, but dinner is over. Consider my debt paid.” Spinning on my heel, I marched to the door and yanked my coat off the silly hockey man. When I grabbed the knob, Dylan’s warm hand curled over mine before I could open it.
“I’ll drive you home.” His hot breath tickled my ear when he spoke.
“Don’t bother,” I snapped, stepping away from him. Anger shot through me that my body betrayed me by reacting to the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand.
“I said I’ll drive you home.” He glared at me like he had the night Flasher Freak had shown up. “It’s foolish to walk alone at night. Didn’t you learn anything last week?”
“I didn’t say I’d walk. I’ll call a cab.”
He ignored me, took my arm, and then led me to Big Betty. I opened my door before he could do it for me, then slammed it shut. Glaring, he stormed around to his side and slid behind the wheel. Neither of us talked during the ride to my apartment.
Project Produce Page 6