Oh shit.
“What? You spilling your coffee? It is clumsy, you know.”
“No. You showing up at my door.”
“I was in your bedroom last night.”
“That doesn’t sound less stalker-like.”
His smile turns playful. “Shut it, Fieldgain. I didn’t come over to admit I peeped through your windows and sniffed your panties. I came for reimbursement.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, reimbursement?”
He nods. “Yes. It’s time to pay your debt.”
“Excuse me? I don’t owe you shit unless it’s a swift kick in the nuts for being on my property, uninvited.”
He appears entertained while leaning back on his heels. “I was invited last night. The invite is valid for a full twenty-four hours.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”
“Yes. You told me to stop by whenever I wanted, remember?”
I park my hands on my hips. “Those words left my mouth alongside the vomit?”
“You. Owe. Me. Now, I have a few options on payment.”
I scoff, “I owe you for being a decent human being?”
He points to me and snaps his fingers. “Correct.”
I clench my teeth and tap my foot. “I can’t believe I’m entertaining this, but what are my options?”
He holds a finger up. “One: we have morning sex.”
I snort. “Not happening.”
He holds up a second finger. “Two: we have sex after work this evening.”
“Next.”
He adds another finger to the mix. “Three: you take me to breakfast.” When I don’t answer, he gestures to my empty cup. “Unless you plan on slurping it from the ground, you need a fresh cup.”
While taking my sweet time to determine my next move with him, I get chills when I realize he’s not bare-chested today.
What a shame.
Instead, he’s giving me the gorgeous view of him in his blue uniform again—another one fitting him perfectly.
Definitely not a shame.
Whichever sight he delivers never fails to turn me on. My nipples tighten, and I wonder what it’d be like to strip his uniform off and for him to use his handcuffs on me.
I nearly fall over in embarrassment, and my eyes meet his at the sound of him clearing his throat.
A cocky smirk plays at his lips. “Chloe, while I appreciate you checking me out, unless you plan on doing something about it, let’s not make my dick hard, okay?”
It takes me a moment to pull myself together, and I gesture to the door. “If breakfast is what you want, come on in. There are Cheerios and Pop-Tarts in my pantry. Have at it.”
Here I go again, being stupid.
Who invites their enemy into their home again?
People in horror movies who wind up murdered—that’s who.
“As much as I’d love to come in and have you serve me breakfast—” he begins.
“Serve?” I interrupt with a snort. “I’d throw it to you and walk out the door.”
My answer further amuses him. “Shirley’s Diner. I can drive us, or you can meet me there in five.”
I feign annoyance.
He grins.
“Fine,” I deadpan. “Thirty minutes. One pancake.”
“Forty minutes. Two pancakes.”
“Jesus. Just fucking follow me.” I yell his name to stop him, and he turns to leave.
“Decide on a better offer, one involving us in your bed?” he asks with a raised brow.
“You wish. Where are my keys?”
“I might know the answer to your question.”
“Are you kidding me?” I screech. “You jacked my keys?”
“Technically, you gave them to me, but I kept them to lock your door on my way out. You should thank me for eliminating the risk of you being executed in your sleep.”
I push my open palm his way. “Hand them over.”
He pats the pocket by his groin, and I notice the outline of keys underneath the fabric. “I’d prefer if you grabbed them. The pockets are tiny, so smaller hands would do better to rescue them.”
I take a deep breath. “The longer you play your games, the shorter time we spend at breakfast. Choose your battles, Lane.”
My mouth waters at the idea of going forward and startling him by grabbing my keys. I’d love to watch his reaction if I did reach in, graze his cock, and then pull them out slowly and torturously.
I don’t though because not only am I a chickenshit, but he also drags them out and dumps them in my hand seconds later.
“I hope you bring your appetite.” He shifts around and strides to his new Jeep.
I further check him out and shrug with no shame before walking to my car.
Shirley’s Diner is packed with people stuffing their stomachs with every breakfast food imaginable. The diner has been a staple here for longer than I’ve been alive. Blue Beech, Iowa, is a small town where everybody knows everybody. Most residents reside in town, in comfortable neighborhoods void of dilapidated homes, or are lucky to own acres of land.
Me? I was raised on the outskirts, given the name West Side Trash decades ago. There’s no cute ’50s-themed diner within walking distance of the west side. It’s at least a mile walk anywhere—the school, Town Square, any stores.
I pledged I’d move from the west side trailer park I had grown up in when I made enough money. I did. Unfortunately, my sister and mother refuse to do the same. They both live in the same run-down double-wide with my niece and nephew. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t judge people from there, but it’s where most of the crime takes place.
Shirley gives Kyle a grin when we walk in and seats us, muttering something about giving us his favorite booth.
Of course he has a favorite.
Unlike other patrons who aren’t the biggest fans of my family, she greets me with a friendly smile while we sit down, and she takes our orders.
No matter what other people think about my family, Shirley has never let outside influence change her opinion of me. In high school, I’d come to the diner to do homework, and Shirley always brought me free milkshakes.
I order a coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast. If I’m stuck with him, I might as well eat.
“What’s your favorite breakfast food?” Kyle asks from across the booth when our food is dropped off.
“I don’t have one,” I answer with honesty.
He dramatically gasps at my answer. “What? Who doesn’t have a favorite breakfast food? Pancakes or waffles with delicious maple syrup.” He tips his head back and groans. “Mmm … chicken and waffles.”
Goose bumps run up my arms. His food-loving groan turns me on.
I am ridiculous.
When he glimpses at me, I shrug, acting like I wasn’t imagining him making the same groan while inside me. “I grew up on generic cereal and toast, so I wouldn’t consider any of those as my favorite.”
Even now that I can afford decent breakfast foods, it’s never been my thing—most likely because of skipping meals in college in favor of studying.
His eyebrows scrunch together. “I’m sorry, but what does that have to do with not having a favorite breakfast food?”
I straighten my napkin in my lap. “I’m not a breakfast person. Sue me.”
He points his fork in my direction, syrup dripping from the ends. “One day, I’ll make you breakfast in bed. You’ll eat my pancakes while naked and love every bite. Watch and see.”
I snort. “You’ve lost your mind.”
This conversation needs to take a different turn, pronto. It’s making me imagine things I shouldn’t. Eating his pancakes while naked does sound like a fun time.
He drops his fork and focuses all his attention on me. “All right then. Chloe Fieldgain is not a breakfast person; got it. Let’s move on to the next question. What is your favorite food then?”
I chew on my lower lip. “I don’t have a favorite food.”
I’m not a foodie. I live on a diet
of salads and quick meals. It’s not entertaining, cooking for one.
He gapes at me. “Everyone has a favorite food, Chloe. If you picked one thing to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
I hate the question. It’s a typical first-date question that no one has ever asked me.
Shit.
This is most definitely not a date.
I drum my fingers against the table while thinking. “Uh … grilled chicken, I guess.”
“Grilled chicken?” he slowly repeats in a disapproving tone, making me feel judged. “Grilled chicken is the one thing you’d pick to eat for the rest of your life?”
I shrug. “Why not? It’s healthy and easy to make.”
I had my fair share of cooking for four when I was younger. It’s a chore now.
He gives me a confident smile. “Jesus, as your neighbor, I’m officially taking it upon myself to change your favorite meal into something less boring.”
I glare at him in reluctance. “All right then, favorite meal judge, what’s yours?”
It doesn’t take him but a second to answer. “Pussy.” The word falls from his lips with pride and no shame, as if he’d said it was chocolate cake.
The one word causes me to spit out my coffee.
He smirks at my reaction. “It’s organic.”
I cover my face with my napkin and shake my head before cleaning up the mess. “There are so many things disturbing about your answer … about your favorite food.”
“Disturbing?” He raises his brow as a teasing smile plays over his lips. Yes, the man loves fucking with me. “What is so disturbing about it?”
I start to answer, but he cuts me off and continues talking. “I’m not surprised that someone whose boyfriend never sufficiently ate her pussy would find my answer disturbing. I’m sorry your orgasm-abandoned personality finds it disturbing, but a quick tip for when you find another boyfriend: you’d better pray it’s his favorite meal.” He grabs his coffee and leans back in the booth. “I’d suggest making it a first-date question.”
I can’t stop from smiling even though he just talked shit about me and insulted my personality. Orgasm-abandoned? Who says that? Hell, what does it even mean?
“You’re seriously depraved.” I grab my coffee and rest my elbows on the table as the cup dangles from my fingers. I take a slow drink and continue. “Maybe it’s why I’ve hated you all these years.”
He sets his mug down and leans across the table, lowering his voice so that only I hear. “You didn’t hate me that night.”
I push against his forehead with my palm, and he relaxes in the booth, not one bit alarmed I forehead-slapped him.
“You need to quit with that bullshit before I throw my coffee in your face.”
He drapes his arm along the booth. “In high school … I did a shitty thing.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
As painfully as I want to deny it, regret is on his face.
“I’ve felt like a douchebag since then.”
“You should.”
My gaze lowers to my eggs before reaching Kyle’s eyes again. We’re inches apart, and it takes us seconds for our gazes to connect. I can’t resist pouring all my emotions out, needing him to witness the hurt he caused me, and we create the connection I wanted with him so many years ago.
“You could’ve fixed it, you know,” I say, soft-spoken.
He doesn’t look away. “It wasn’t that simple.”
“It was that simple.”
He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m sorry.”
A child screaming in the background breaks our connection, and I shut my eyes, shake my head, and withdraw, my back against the booth again.
“Whatever,” I finally mutter, opening my eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Obviously, it does since you bring it up every time we talk.” His face remains serious, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m fucking sorry, Chloe. I don’t know how many more times you want me to say it. Tell me what I need to do to make it up to you. Go ahead. As long as it’s not cutting off my balls or some shit, I’m willing.”
There’s nothing he can do to change it now. The damage is done. Although this is the first time he’s offered to make up for what he did instead of giving me a simple apology.
“I don’t like this Kyle,” I grumble. I need the smart-ass Kyle who’s easier to hate to return—not the guy who takes care of me when I’m drunk and then insists on having breakfast together.
He raises a brow while studying me. “What Kyle?”
“The nice, no-ulterior-motive Kyle.”
He takes a bite of his neglected breakfast and swallows it down. “How do you know I don’t have an ulterior motive?”
“Do you?”
He shrugs. “Possibly.”
I glare at him. “Of course you do. You want to make sure I don’t run the story about Lauren.” I shake my head and roll my eyes. Go figure. “We’ve been neighbors for months, and you’ve never invited me to breakfast. Will you threaten and harass me about her story until the day I die?”
“Technically, you telling me to fuck off daily never gave me the notion you’d enjoy a meal with me, but last night confirmed you don’t hate me as much as you lead on.” He smirks. “And we both know you’re smart enough not to run the story since I made myself clear on the repercussions.”
I narrow my eyes his way. “What makes you so sure I won’t?”
He shrugs and settles back so casually that you’d think we were discussing the weather. “You’re smart. Always have been.”
“Except when I hang out with you.”
“No, that’s smart. Who doesn’t want to hang out with me? You seemed to enjoy it last night. I’m cool as shit.”
“Negative. Men who are cool as shit don’t do what you did, and they most definitely don’t threaten women not to publish stories in what you so kindly referred to as a pitiful newspaper. So, what gives?”
“I was a fucking kid, Chloe, for the millionth goddamn time. Kids do stupid shit.”
“You’re right. Kids toilet-paper houses or sneak out. They don’t cross lines like you did.”
He pushes his plate forward and stares at me with intent and annoyance. “My only ulterior motive is convincing you to get to know me and realize I’m not the villain you paint me out to be. I want us to share some meals and maybe share some orgasms. You know, I’ve wanted to finish what we started in high school.”
I pour more sugar into my coffee even though it’s unnecessary. His words piss me off. “Your behavior didn’t show that.”
“True, but I’ll make it up to you. Don’t waste orgasms by giving them to a vibrator.”
I take a drink and cringe at the sweetness. “How do you know I don’t have a boyfriend?”
“I was the one who took you home and tucked you in last night, and you’re having breakfast with me. If you do, he’s another shit boyfriend you should dump.”
“And what?” I raise a brow. “Sleep with you?”
“If it’s what you need, I don’t mind taking on the job.” He holds his hand up but drops it as soon as his phone buzzes with a text. “It’s Gage. He’ll be here in five to pick me up.”
“In the squad car?” I question.
He nods.
“Does he always drive?”
I’ve seen them come and go, and Kyle always seems to be riding passenger. I’m not sure why I’ve paid attention. It could be because Kyle enjoys being in charge, which means, being in the driver’s seat, so it makes me wonder why he doesn’t ever drive.
He nods again.
“Do you feel emasculated?” Ugh, I sound like Kent. Ew.
“For not driving? Fuck no. Gage has gone through some rough shit. If driving helps him, he can have the keys anytime he wants.”
“Things like what?” I’ve heard the rumors but never known what was true and what wasn’t. I considered writing a piece on it but decided against it after no one would say a
word to me.
“I would never put my best friend’s business out there. Loyalty is a big deal to me.”
“But you had no problem putting my business out there,” I fire back. “You had no problem with people talking about me.”
“You weren’t and aren’t my best friend.” He says it matter-of-factly, no bullshit, like his loyalty only falls on those he deems worthy.
“Glad to know. I’ll be sure to never tell you my personal business.”
He cocks his head to the side and smirks. “Earn my loyalty, and you can.”
I ignore his comment and take another drink of the Candy Land–tasting coffee. Our teenage waitress, who should probably be on her way to high school, hands him the bill without even glancing at me.
He pulls it away when I go to grab it.
“I’ve got this,” I say in a demanding tone. I try to snatch it from his hand but with no success. “You said I owed you breakfast.”
“Did I?” He fakes confusion and scratches his head. “I thought I said I’d take you to breakfast.”
I push my hand out further. “Give me the damn bill.”
“How about … no?” He pulls out his wallet and drags out a fifty without bothering to glance at the bill. “Keep the change,” he says, handing it to the waitress.
She gives him a girlie smile I would’ve given every Backstreet Boy in my day. “Thank you so much, Kyle.”
He smiles in return—not in a disturbing, I like to creep on younger girls way, but more of a genuine one. “You’re welcome.”
What gives?
Why would he tip a pre-algebra student so much money?
The waitress skips away in excitement, and I scoff.
He flinches. “What?”
“Look at you, Mr. Dreamy Eyes Keep the Change.”
“Mad I’m not making dreamy eyes at you?” He inches forward. “I’m not hitting on her. Her father walked out on the family a few weeks ago. Her mother works here as well, and they’re barely making ends meet. If an extra tip helps them out, then I’ll give her an extra tip.”
I hate that this turns me on. “That’s, uh … very nice of you.”
“Again, I’ve tried to tell you that I’m a nice guy. Let me know when you’re done lying to yourself.”
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 25