Dirty Talk

by Megan Erickson

  Delilah clicked her nails on the counter. “Okay, I’ll call her later.”

  Ivy perched on a stool behind the counter, and Delilah sat beside her, chattering on about the weather and the store and whatever else Delilah usually talked about. Ivy listened, content not to speak.

  Until Delilah began asking questions. “So I noticed your car at the auto shop the other day.”

  Ivy scooted a piece of chicken around in the plastic container. Delilah knew about the dramatic rescue, but that had been the extent of the conversation about the Paytons, although Delilah had always looked like she wanted to say more.

  Ivy took a sip of her water that Delilah had brought with the food. “Yeah, uh, I went there to talk to Brent. To thank him.”

  Delilah raised her perfectly sculpted eyebrows and waited.

  “So I told him I wanted to do something for him, as a thank-you. I told him I’d buy him sports tickets or whatever, and he said no. That he wanted . . . a date. With me.”

  Delilah’s eyes widened, and her pink lips formed an O. “Brent? Asked you on a date?”

  “Well, he didn’t really ask me on a date. He requested I take him on a date. I guess.”

  “Yeah, but Brent Payton wants a date with you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Brent doesn’t date.”

  “We’re not dating. It’s a date. That’s different, right?”

  Delilah’s lunch was all but forgotten as she focused in on Ivy. “Uh, not really. Brent picks up girls. Brent sleeps with girls. He’s really good at that, but—” As if realizing what she said, Delilah clapped her hands over her mouth.

  Ivy wanted to melt into the carpet. “Um . . . ”

  “Shit,” Delilah whispered behind her hand.

  Don’t ask, Ivy. Don’t ask. “Did you sleep with him?”

  Delilah closed her eyes and then squinted them open, still mumbling behind her hand. “Maybe.”

  Awkward.

  Delilah dropped her hands into her lap. “It’s not a big thing. It was years ago. A lot of years ago. We slept together as friends, and we’re still friends. That’s it. No drama. I guess I wasn’t thinking because everyone knows. It’s not a secret.”

  Why did Ivy feel like she’d been punched in the gut? “Well then, there’s no reason I shouldn’t know.”

  Delilah sighed. “I didn’t want to blurt it out like that, not while you two have a thing going on.”

  “We don’t have a thing!”

  Delilah squinted her eyes. “You have a thing.”

  “No thing. Nothing.”

  “Yes thing. Yesthing.”

  Ivy pursed her lips to cover her giggle.

  Delilah smiled at her brightly, clearly relieved. “Look,” Delilah said. “I’ve known Brent a long time, since grade school. And he’s not one of those guys who wants something because he can’t have it. Honestly, that’s not him. He usually takes the easy way out. So the fact that he is doing this the hard way? That he’s taking on a challenge? That says something. That’s all I have to say about that.”

  Ivy knew all about the chase—all about men who wanted what they couldn’t have. She’d tried to pretend this was what Brent was about, that she’d turned him down so he wanted to conquer her. But Delilah was turning that on its head.

  She tugged her lips between her teeth, salad all but forgotten in front of her.

  “Ivy?”

  She turned her head to the side. Delilah was watching her. “I asked you where you’re taking him.”

  “Oh, uh, Mackey’s.”

  “The sports bar?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “Why are you taking him there?”

  “He doesn’t want to get dressed up and go to a stuffy restaurant with me, does he? Brent seems like the kind of guy who wants a burger and a beer, loud noises, and baseball games on TV—and waitresses walking around in skimpy outfits.”

  Delilah didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t you think?” Ivy asked.

  Delilah smiled, although a little secretively. “Sure, with any other girl I’d say that might be Brent’s favorite date. With you? I’m not so sure.”

  Well shit. “I don’t have time to change plans now.”

  Delilah shrugged and stood up as the phone in the shop began to ring. “Just go on the date as you have planned. But I think you need to leave your concept of who you think Brent is at the door.”

  After dropping that bomb, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and picked up the phone. “Hello, Delilah’s Drawers!”

  Chapter Seven

  BRENT DIDN’T DO nerves.

  He didn’t do surprises or situations that were unfamiliar.

  And he didn’t do this. This fretting and agonizing over his clothes and his hair and that damn cut on his jaw that he’d made while shaving, like he was a teenager.

  Yet he was doing all that and more right now on the way to pick up Ivy for their date.

  She hadn’t told him where they were going but said casual was fine. Which was great, because that meant they weren’t going to Bellini, which was the nicest place in Tory. The last time he’d been at Bellini, he’d thrown down with Jenna’s brother, so he wasn’t about to visit there again anytime soon.

  So. Casual. He’d chosen his nicest jeans. His nicest boots. And a maroon Henley with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’d brushed back his dark hair, but the front kept falling forward, strands tickling his forehead.

  Dumb hair. Dumb clothes. Dumb fucking idea, this date.

  He pulled into Ivy’s apartment complex and cut the engine, wishing he was at home with Honeybear or out at a bar where he didn’t have to work so hard to impress a woman. What was he doing anyway? He was so out of his element that he couldn’t find himself.

  And he hoped, above all, that she actually wanted to do this. That she wasn’t dreading it. That she wasn’t cursing him for making her spend an evening with him.

  But what was done was done. So he hopped down out of his truck and walked the couple of flights to her apartment door.

  He knocked.

  And waited.

  And when Ivy opened the door, all thoughts of how this was a dumb idea vanished because this . . . was a fucking brilliant idea. And Ivy was the reason why.

  Her dress was simple. A coral color that coated all her curves like honey. The neckline dipped, revealing the tops of her breasts. The color of the dress and the teal jewelry she wore showed off her tan left over from the summer. Her dark hair was down in waves around her shoulders.

  And she wore strappy heels, her little toenails painted the same color as her dress.

  She fidgeted nervously as he took her in, and he didn’t care at the moment. He took his time looking at her, because this—this woman would be on his arm tonight. He didn’t care where or how long. He’d take five minutes if that was all she gave him. It’d be worth it.

  “You’re . . . stunning, Ivy.” Those were the only words he uttered, which were sadly lacking to sum up all the beauty that stood in front of him.

  Her cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head, grabbed her purse, and stepped out into the hallway. As she tried to shut the door, a voice called from inside.

  “Mommy! You said I could see Brent!”

  Ivy flung the door back open. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. I . . . yeah, I’m sorry. Say hi to Brent, Violet.”

  Ivy shot him an apologetic smile, which he waved off. He wanted to see the little girl.

  Violet came flying down the hallway, wearing some sort of princess dress that looked like a costume. She skidded to a halt in her bare feet in front of Brent. He crouched down in front of her and tapped her tiara. “Hey there, Princess. You get a new one?”

  She nodded, the jeweled plastic thing on her head bobbing. “Yep. Aunt Alex got it.”

  “I think I like it even better than your other one,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You bet.”

  She beamed. “What are yo
u and Mommy doing?”

  “We’re going to eat dinner.”

  “Oh.” Violet thought about that.

  “Is that all right with you?”

  Violet’s blue eyes shifted to her mother over her shoulder and then back to Brent. “Of course. I like you!”

  That warmed Brent more than he thought it would. “I like you too, Princess.”

  Violet waved. “Have fun!”

  Ivy leaned down to kiss her daughter, and then they were outside the door—for real this time.

  Brent stood staring at her, and she stared right back. Her gaze took him in, from head to toe. “You look nice,” she said softly.

  “Nice?” He smiled. “Don’t you know guys don’t wanna be called nice?”

  She lifted her chin a little. “Well, I think you look nice, and in my book, nice means good things.”

  He tilted his head. Well, that was a good start. At least she didn’t look miserable at the prospect of a night with him. Nervous? Sure. But not miserable. “Yeah?”

  Her expression changed, like she’d said more than she wanted to. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I like nice.”

  “Okay, if you call me nice, can I call you ‘babe’?”

  She pursed her lips, but her eyes sparkled, like she was holding in a smile. Then she sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

  He held out his arm, and she stuck her hand in the crook. “ ’Kay, then, babe, let’s go have a nice date.”

  HE HADN’T EXPECTED Mackey’s. He’d been there before, sure. Plenty of times. With Cal or Gabe or other friends.

  The sports bar was full of loud men yelling at one of the many TVs tuned to sporting events, while female waitresses, wearing scraps of fabric that were supposed to look like ref uniforms, walked around holding trays laden with beer and buffalo wings.

  Their “uniforms” were tight. Very tight. He knew because he’d peeled it off one of the bartenders years ago after he took her home.

  Oh, God, he hoped like hell she didn’t work here anymore.

  He and Ivy stood inside the door, waiting for the party ahead of them to be seated before they approached the hostess booth. A year ago, he would have said this would be the perfect place to take a date. A man’s date.

  But now? All he wanted was quiet. He wanted to look at Ivy. He wanted to talk to her and hear her voice. He didn’t want to miss the times her breath caught in her throat, the small sighs, all the signs he normally couldn’t give two shits about. But with Ivy, he wanted it all. And now he’d have to compete with the TVs blaring and the rowdy drunk guys shouting and the college kids taking bets.

  But then, he told himself that beggars couldn’t be choosers. So he smiled at Ivy, who smiled back wanly. “I thought you’d like it here, you know? The big TVs and the, uh, view.” She gestured to a waitress who walked by in tiny Spandex shorts and a black-and-white shirt, unbuttoned to show a copious cleavage.

  He didn’t let his gaze follow the woman as she walked by holding two baskets of loaded French fries. He locked eyes with Ivy and held it. “Right. The view.”

  She stared right back, and a beat passed. A beat where he could have said more. He could have told her that the best view all night would be the one he was looking at right then.

  But the moment ended, and Ivy turned her head, took a deep breath, and approached the hostess stand.

  It was okay. He had all night to get his point across.

  BRENT LOOKED GOOD.

  Amazing.

  Really amazing. And sexy. And infinitely touchable, lickable, and kissable. Basically, he was a lot of “-ables” tonight. And it was making her dizzy.

  The hostess who led them to their table was blonde and had the body of a swimsuit model and was probably twenty years old. This was what Ivy had wanted when she made this date. Plenty of eye candy for Brent to focus on rather than on her.

  What she hadn’t taken into account was herself—her emotions and how he was making her feel. The way his words sunk into her skin. You look stunning.

  No one had ever called her stunning. She was always cute. Cute little Ivy.

  Brent had called her stunning. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since they stepped in this damn place, despite all the skin exposed around them.

  As he sat down in the booth across from her, she told herself to look away, but she couldn’t stop staring at the way his biceps filled out his shirt, the way the veins in his forearms led down to big, strong hands.

  Hands and biceps that had carried her daughter.

  Goddammit.

  Ivy ordered a light beer and a water. The waitress wrote it down and then smacked her gum and tossed her hair over her shoulder as she turned her attention to Brent. She flirted with him, clearly angling for a good tip. Ivy sat silently as Brent smiled back at the waitress, asking about what beers they had on draft. He listened attentively as she ran through the list.

  If Ivy hadn’t known what it was like to really have Brent’s attention, she wouldn’t have noticed the difference. He was good at making any person feel like he or she was the center of his attention, even when the person wasn’t.

  Right now, their waitress was eating it up, while Brent’s fingers rubbed the scruff on his jaw. He wore his easy grin, and his posture was relaxed, all long-limbed and confident.

  But as soon as Brent ordered, and the waitress left their table, his act dropped, and he began fiddling with his napkin. His gaze was on his fingers as he snuck glances at her through his lashes.

  Yep, Ivy hadn’t thought this through. Because even though Brent wasn’t letting his gaze roam around the room, she was a little jealous. She was proud to be here with him. She was smitten. She was a dozen other things that she hadn’t expected.

  She was in trouble. So much damn trouble.

  Brent cleared his throat. “So the job is going okay?”

  Don’t think about how he slept with Delilah. Don’t think about how he slept with Delilah. Don’t . . . shit. “Um, it’s good. Delilah is a fair boss.”

  He perked up at that. “Yeah, D is good people. I’m glad you’re working there.”

  “So you’re friends?” Why am I asking questions?

  The waitress delivered their beers, and Brent nodded his thanks. Ivy took a sip and let the foam fizzle on her upper lip.

  “Yeah, we’ve been friends for a long time. Since . . . high school, I guess. We had a thing once, but that was so long ago. Just friends now.” He waved a hand and smiled. Like it was no big deal.

  And really, it was no big deal. Why couldn’t he be a creeper and hide it from her or be shady? Instead, he had to be all honest and gallant about it.

  Yep, she was in trouble. “It’s a good job, and she’s a good boss.”

  “And Alex doing okay, putting up with us?”

  Ivy smiled. “She loves her job.”

  “And Violet? Adjusting to her new school?”

  Ivy took another sip of beer, letting the bitter liquid rest on her tongue before swallowing. “She is.” And she had been since the accident. “Her teacher is a woman, so that helps.”

  And as Brent tilted his head, she realized she’d said too much. “A woman,” he repeated.

  “I just mean . . . ” She let her voice trail off, but he wasn’t giving up.

  “What do you mean?”

  So she gulped down some beer and said, “Violet hasn’t had the best experience around men.” Brent’s eyes hardened, and she added hastily, “I mean, no one hurt her, physically, but . . . ” Why was this so hard? “But she isn’t comfortable around men.”

  His eyes were still hard, and he was studying her, his face set.

  So she finished all the rest of what he needed to know. “Except you. She’s comfortable around you.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she looked away, staring at the TV screens, blinking her eyes. When she was able to look back at Brent, his head was down, his brow furrowed, and he was tearing the napkin in his hand to bits. He didn’t look at her when he mumbled, “
Thanks for telling me that.”

  And then they were saved from that conversation by their waitress, returning to take their food orders.

  Ivy ordered something she’d have to chew a lot. That way, her mouth would be too busy to talk.

  IVY GOT A steak, which ended up being so tender she didn’t have to chew much. Brent got a mushroom-and-Swiss burger that was probably, theoretically, the worst date sandwich ever. It was greasy and kept falling apart. It was a total mess. Yet watching Brent lick his lips and his fingers and stick out his tongue to catch an errant drip of sauce on the side of his hand was incredibly . . . arousing. With any other man, Ivy would have been turned off, but Brent had a way of doing everything with a side of sex. Walking? Side of sex. Eating? Side of sex on a stick.

  When he smacked his lips for the third time, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you what food to order on a date?”

  He froze, his thumb still in his mouth, and raised his eyebrows. And shit, but he still looked hot. He pulled his thumb out with a pop and stared down at his sandwich. “What’s wrong with my burger?”

  “Usually on a date, you don’t order something so messy.” Oh, God, why was she talking about this? What was she, his mother? “You know, to avoid getting food on your clothes.”

  He glanced down at his shirt, which was stain-free, and then he looked up at her with a grin. “I don’t go on many dates, but I’m thinking getting food on my clothes could actually be . . . advantageous.” He waggled his eyebrows, and she couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

  Then she leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “Do go on, Brent. Tell me more about your scheme.”

  He picked his shirt off his chest with a thumb and forefinger. “So. Step one. I get a stain on my shirt, right?”

  She nodded, widening her eyes on purpose in mock seriousness.

  He squinted at her. “You think I’m full of shit.”

  “Never,” she said with a playful gasp.

  He growled and kept talking. “Okay, so my shirt is stained. And I smell like—”

  “Like a burger.”

  Uncertainty crossed his features. “Okay, forget about the scent thing.”