“I suppose tattoos are out of the question, then?” She wiggles her flirty brow.
I’ll pass out at the sight of the first needle, but keep that to myself. “Listen…uh… Hey, I don’t even know your name.” I really want her to tell me so I don’t come across as a complete stalker.
She winks and I’m ready to come undone. “See? You really are more like a Delta than you realize. You’re taking a woman home and you don’t even know her name.”
8
{Emma}
The color returns to his cheeks as he narrows his eyes. “You really don’t like Deltas, do you?”
“No. I think they’re all arrogant asshats with egos the size of Bainbridge Island.”
“Yet you want to turn me into one.”
“No,” I correct. “You want me to turn you into one. I’m just showing you how.”
That shuts him up. For about a second. “Fine,” he admits after studying me. “Do me.”
I cough on my beer and not only spit it all over my shirt, I go to set the bottle on the counter, miss, and drop the bottle in my lap. The remainder of the cold liquid saturates my jeans. I jump up, but the damage is done. I’m soaked, and now smell like I’ve just spent the night in the rusty dumpster behind the bar. “Jesus Christ, Ryan. You can’t say shit like that. Now look at me.”
“Here, let me help.” He unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off, and tries to wipe me down. I smack him away. When he cops a feel, I grab his hand and twist it so far around he drops to his knees.
“In your dreams, lo—” I stop as I choke on the last of my word. Holy sweet Mother of all things good. He doesn’t just have a six-pack. Oh, no. His six-pack has a six-pack. Those biceps are a thing of sculpted perfection. Nerds definitely don’t have bodies that make women want to lick them from head-to-toe. “Are you shitting me?”
He follows my gaze to his holy shit tight abs and stands when I release his hand. “What?”
“Have any of the Deltas seen you naked?”
“It’s not that kind of house.” He frowns.
“Ryan, look at you. You’re like a romance cover model. Jesus. Why are you covering that under this?” I hold up his ugly plaid shirt.
When he doesn’t answer, I take the shirt and rip it at the sleeve.
“Hey! That was from my mom!”
I rip off the other sleeve and hand the shirt back. “Now you may wear it, but only when you’re working on something. And you can’t button it. Ever.”
He looks at me, clearly unsure whether to put it back on or not.
The beer is starting to dry and stick to me. I feel gross and need to change out of my clothes before the mixture of maraschino martinis and beer—both in me and on me—causes me to throw up.
“Do you have something I can change into?”
He hands me his shirt and I just look at him.
With a ridiculously cute grin, he gives me a nod before disappearing into what I assume is his bedroom. He returns with a T-shirt and pair of shorts, both about ten sizes too big for me. It is what it is. I go into the bathroom to change.
The minute I walk into the bathroom, I turn around and walk back out, shock plunging through my body. Guys are supposed to be slobs. His bathroom is cleaner than a five-star hotel’s.
He snaps his brow into a frown. “What is it?”
“Do Deltas have cleaning services or something?”
“No. Why?”
“Do you have a girlfriend and or a personal maid of any kind?”
“No.”
“You’re seriously not screwing with me right now?”
He takes his time eyeing my body and my nipples harden, both from the beer and my reaction to him mentally tracing me. I have to admit, I like the way he’s looking at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Your bathroom is so clean you can eat off that floor. Guys aren’t that clean, Ryan.”
He narrows his gaze and rushes to the bathroom. When he walks back out, his head is cocked to the side and he’s muttering something to himself. “I don’t… I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“I didn’t leave the bathroom that clean.”
“Sure you didn’t.” I roll my eyes. I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or not, so I let it go.
“I’m serious. I didn’t leave it like that.” He’s staring at the hall like it’s going to come up with all the answers to whatever has him so perplexed.
“How much did you have to drink, buddy?”
He shakes his head, dismissing my question. I don’t expect an answer anyway.
“You’re going to have to learn to be more of a slob if you want to get the girl.”
“That makes absolutely no sense. I have to be a slob to be a player?”
“The two go hand in hand. I don’t make the rules.”
“Change in my room if it makes you feel better. I promise you. That’s much messier.”
I don’t trust him and march into his room to prove him wrong. But he’s right. It’s not that much messier, but it is more lived in. A couple pairs of pants on the floor. Some shirts in the corner. Oh, and look at that. He wears boxers. Good to know it’s one less thing I’ll have to groom about him.
After changing out of my clothes and realizing my bra is soaked as well, I toss it aside and throw the shirt on over my head. At least my panties are still dry. What a crime. I giggle at my thought.
No matter how I try, I can’t get the shorts to stay up. The shirt hangs down low enough that it doesn’t matter anyway, so I leave them on the floor. Yawning, I then glance at the bed. Why I have the sudden urge to smell his pillow I can’t even begin to explain, but I do, so I climb onto the bed and steal a glance at the door before leaning over and taking in a big sniff.
Holy Jesus on skates. How in the name of all things holy did he get his pillow to smell like that? It makes no sense why I have such an overwhelming reaction to a scent. A jolt of something awakens inside me and pulses hard. My once dry panties aren’t so much now. I squeeze my bare thighs together to alleviate the sudden throb attacking my clit. Jesus, even with the couple of times with Ted from the lacrosse team, quite possibly the best lover in the world, I never had that kind of reaction.
I take in another breath, just to make sure my body’s reaction isn’t a fluke.
“What are you doing?”
I jump off the bed as guilt pounds in my cheeks. “I’m just, uh… Nothing.”
“Were you sniffing my pillow?” He has a crazy spark in his eye and I don’t like it. It’s like he already knows what I was doing and just wants me to admit it.
“No,” I tell him in the most accusatory tone I have.
“Then what were you doing on my bed?”
“Changing.” I even motion to the stylish gray t-shirt I now have on.
“On my bed?”
“Jesus, Ryan. Demanding answers from a woman is not the way to get into her pants.” I’m still trying to make sense over the reaction I’m having from the scent on his pillow. I can’t think about next moves when I want to make a few of my own.
“Are you even wearing pants?”
“Are you seriously trying to blow this? If a woman doesn’t want to answer a question, you let it go.” I storm past him and back into the living room to grab my beer off the counter. It’s empty and I set it back down.
“Got it. Sorry. Please don’t leave. I promise I’ll do better.” He runs after me. His eyes are wide, his look fueled by panic. Jesus, he looks like I just stole his ice cream cone. His words hit me hard. Really hard. I’m pretty sure I used those exact words a decade ago when my dad left. Why I just thought of that, I have no idea. I try not to think of the man who turned into nothing more than a sperm donor.
With a deep breath, I lock those thoughts away and regard the nerd before me. What was I thinking agreeing to this insanity? He needs so much work. The thick glasses. The mullet. The fact he follows me around like a canine in heat.
Still, my mom didn’t
raise no quitter. “I’m not going to leave. I’m in it to win it.”
“There’s a T-shirt saying.” He grins. “Okay. What’s next?”
I have no idea. I usually try to fix guys by changing them into someone a little less douchy, not the other way around. I’m way out of my comfort zone, here. Stalling for time, I glance at the clock on the stove. “Is it really after midnight? No wonder I’m so tired.” I make it a big performance to yawn and stretch.
“What’s wrong?”
Everything. I don’t like how out of control I suddenly feel. I don’t handle lack of control well and blame the sixth grade. Six months into the sixth grade, to be more precise. When I went to school that Tuesday, I left a happy twelve-year-old with happy parents living in a happy home. When I returned, my dad had left us and I graduated to a miserable twelve-year-old from a miserable broken home.
That’s exactly what it was—broken. My dad leaving broke me. I had no control then and look what happened. I sure as shit don’t want to lose control again. Like, ever. God only knows what’d break on me this time.
I shake the thought and glance at Ryan. He’s watching me, studying me like I confuse him. I confuse myself, so I don’t blame him in the least. This idea doesn’t seem so great anymore. “Look, I have a class at nine.”
“Your lab. I know.”
Okay, now that’s just creepy. “How’d you know that? Are you stalking me?”
“I work in the computer lab.” He sounds annoyed. Dare I say, even offended. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Take the bed since you like the smell of it so much.”
“Aha! You knew what I was doing all along.”
He doesn’t even bother to look at me as he passes me and disappears into the bedroom. He reappears with a pillow and comforter and tosses them on the couch. I stand there as he kicks off his shoes and practically throws himself down.
“Ryan?”
“What?”
I’m so not good at this. On any normal day I’d just let him pout and ignore him. This doesn’t feel like a normal day. At all. Regret twists inside me. I can be such a bitch. I don’t even realize it half the time, it comes so naturally. I wring my hands in front of me as I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Are you pissed?”
He sits up and looks at me over the top of the couch. “Of course I’m pissed. I’ve sat in classes with you for almost two years now and you still have no idea who I am. I finally get enough balls to talk to you and you not only shoot me down, you almost get me beat up by the head of my own house. On top of all of that, you think I’m a zero. So, yeah. I’m pissed.”
“Okay,” I snap, irritated he won’t let that go. “For God’s sake. Scream. Punch something. Get over it. If you can’t grow a bigger set, we’re going to have a problem. I can’t pretend to be the girlfriend of a complete pussy.”
He stands and takes his time approaching. I try not to stare at his abs but fail. Damn, they make me want to touch them. The closer he gets, the harder it is to resist reaching out. “My balls are just fine the size they are.”
We stare each other down. When my lips twitch, so do his. And then he chuckles. I giggle in return. Suddenly we’re both laughing so hard I’m crying.
“I can’t believe you said that,” I say and wipe at the tears in my eyes.
He adjusts his glasses. “I can’t believe you insulted the size of my balls.”
That sends us into another fit of ridiculous laughter. I blame the alcohol. “Okay, fine. How about we finish this fight tomorrow? I’m exhausted.” When I pad down the hallway toward his room, I notice him following me and my heart flips out. “What are you doing?”
“Changing into my pajamas.”
“Pajamas?” I snort. “You call them pajamas?”
“That’s what they are.”
“PJs,” I correct. “And even then, what guy wears PJs?”
“This guy.” He pushes past me and enters his room. I follow to see whether or not I approve of these PJs or if they’ll end up at Goodwill with the rest of his wardrobe.
He has his pants down around his knees by the time I walk in. “Whoa there, cowboy.”
“Do you mind?” He continues to undress, dragging one leg and then the other out of the denim before tossing the jeans in the corner.
I stare at his ass for several seconds and even turn my head to study it from a different angle. How’d I miss that backside? The way it curves. The way my hands itch to touch it. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Quit looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” I’m still staring at his seriously fine ass.
He grabs a pair of flannel PJ bottoms and covers up my view. I frown and dart my gaze to his, then drop it altogether when he glares at me. I shrug and pretend interest in my nails. “Like that.”
“What?” I fail at trying to hide it. He already caught me anyway. “You have a nice ass, Ryan. Don’t be afraid to show it off.”
Color splashes his cheek and he hurries out of the room. I follow him yet again. By the time I get into the living room, he’s already on the couch with the comforter up over his head.
“Why are you so embarrassed?”
“Go away.”
I groan and grab the comforter to yank it off. He resists at first but eventually lets me win. I throw it down to his feet. “What’s your problem?”
“Right now? You.”
“Me?” I’m pissed. I’m shocked. I want to say something to piss him off in return. “I’m trying to help you. Screw you if you’re too blind to see that.”
“Go to bed.”
Not knowing what else to do, I grab the comforter and storm into the bedroom. Once I straighten out his sheets, I climb into bed and pull the comforter around me. Within a minute that feels like an eternity, he walks into the room.
“What do you want?” I snap.
His voice is low, even, as he speaks. “You took my blanket.”
“You pissed me off.”
“Can I have it back?”
“No.” To demonstrate how serious I am, I tighten it around me.
He walks out, only to return an instant later with a pillow. Instead of ripping the comforter off me like I did him, he stretches out on the other side of the bed.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, my voice not strong enough for anything else.
“I’m going to sleep.”
My heart jumps to my throat. Is he about to try something? I have to admit, I didn’t think he had it in him to make such a bold move. “You said you were sleeping on the couch.”
“I changed my mind.” He grabs the comforter and pulls some of it over him. And does nothing else. I’m beyond confused and even a little hurt he’s not trying to attack me. He’s making all the classic moves to make me want him. There’s no way this guy is what he appears.
I roll to face him and prop my head up on my hand. “Are you playing me right now?”
He folds the pillow in half and rests his head on it as he curls his arm under. I can’t help but notice how much more defined his bicep is when he does that. “I don’t understand what that means.”
I can tell by that confusion and curiosity swirling in his gaze he really doesn’t understand. Either that or he’s one hell of an actor. How can someone get to be in his twenties and be so clueless? “Tell me something. Why does a guy with a body like yours cover it with plaid and polyester? Hide eyes like yours behind thick glasses? What are you hiding from?”
He looks at me for several seconds. The way he studies me has me studying him right back. “What makes you think I’m hiding from anything?”
Answering a question with a question is a classic avoidance technique. At least that’s how I look at it. I have no idea why I’m suddenly in the mood to share, but I am. It’s his eyes. Such an intense gray, like angry storm clouds. Eyes are windows into a person’s soul. Isn’t that the saying? Looking into his eyes, I now understand the power behind that saying. I love his eyes. I hate that I love them. I can’t stop stari
ng at them. I’m losing myself in them. “We’re all hiding from something.”
“What are you hiding from?” His voice is soft, tender, as he fires my question right back at me.
“Myself,” I say before I even realize it. Where the hell did that come from? It’s not true. It’s totally not true. I’m not hiding from myself. That doesn’t even make any sense. Not willing to dig any deeper into that single-word answer that has me baffled beyond all rational thought, I do what I do best. I spout random comments dripping with snark. “Your sheets smell funny.”
“If I recall, you like the smell of my sheets.” He grins. I return the gesture. We lay there lost in each other’s gazes. I can’t stand the intensity in our connection and break eye contact to focus on something that doesn’t give me heart palpitations.
“Let me pierce your ear,” I blurt out to break the tense silence. “It’ll really help sell the image.”
“There’s more to a person than image.”
Spoken like a true nerd. “Not with first impressions.”
“Maybe I’m looking for someone interested in the second impression.” He removes his glasses and places them on the nightstand before clicking off the lamp. The light from the street bleeds in through the blinds so I can still see everything, especially him. “Now, go to sleep. You’ve got an early class and I have to work.”
I both love and hate how rational he is. At least one of us has enough sense not to do anything more than sleep as we share the bed. It’s a first for me, not having sex before sleeping next to each other, but hey, I’m willing to try out new things.
9
{Emma}
I toss and turn and still can’t get comfortable. Uncertainty gnaws at my insides. Why isn’t he trying to touch me? Sneaking in with an accidental thigh graze to test the waters so I can shoot him down? It’s like I’m not even here. With a fed up sigh, I flop to my back and stare at the ceiling. We’re acting like we’re married, not fake boyfriend and girlfriend.
“Are you done, yet?”
Is he serious? Why isn’t he just as anxious? I turn to my side, my back to him. Still nothing. Unbelievable. I jump to my other side. Oh, my God. His eyes are closed. “Ryan?”
Reluctant Hero (TREX Rookies Book 1) Page 6