Incredible You

by Lili Valente

  “I don’t know.” My breath rushes out as I brace my hands against his chest, enjoying the feel of his bare skin beneath my fingertips way more than I should.

  I’m enjoying it so much that I’m on the verge of losing myself in the sex fog. But I can’t let that happen, not now, not ever. Jake is off-limits for too many reasons, not the least of which being that he affects me the way only one man ever has. One other man, who lied to me, ripped my heart out through my nose with an embalming hook, and then went and got so sick there was no way I could be mad at him for putting me through hell.

  Remembering the day Wesley finally told me the truth, explaining that our wedding would have to be put on hold until after he made it through a few rounds of occupational therapy and an experimental drug trial, is enough to give me the strength to push my palms against Jake’s chest and move away.

  “You should head home and get some rest,” I say, picking up my copy of Yoga Journal and holding it between us like a shield. “I’m going to send you home with fish medicine and dosage directions. I want you to take your first pill with food and then relax on the sofa with some yoga reading for the rest of the afternoon. Check out the article on hip openers. Great stuff.”

  “Do I look like my hips need opening?” he asks, a teasing note in his voice that makes my face flush hotter.

  “All hips could use some opening now and then,” I say flatly, refusing to flirt with him.

  “What about the rest of orientation?” He eyes the magazine, but makes no move to pluck it from my fingers. “I thought we were supposed to go over the questionnaire together, learn more about each other so we can pull off pretending to be in love.”

  “We are. We will.” I nod with more certainty than I feel. “We can start via text tonight if you have the energy, but I think rest is important now.”

  “I don’t need rest. I feel fine.”

  “You’re running a low grade fever and your body is fighting an infection.”

  “I also have an ex-girlfriend whipping the press into a feeding frenzy and a limited amount of time to get control of this situation,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m ready to go to work.”

  “Rest, medicine, lots of fluids—doctor’s orders.” I lift the magazine, pressing it into his chest, holding him at a distance. “Getting to know each other and planning Keri domination can wait until tomorrow if it has to.”

  Jake sighs, but finally reaches out and takes the magazine. “All right. But I am going to text you later. There are some things I want you to know before we get started.”

  “Sounds good.” I’m tempted to tell him to spill the juicy stuff now, but I can’t risk him lingering in my apartment any longer. I need to get some distance and some perspective before I expose myself to his out of control animal magnetism a second time.

  I fetch him a bottle of Fish Flex, write out quick instructions on dosage and how often to take the antibiotic, and walk him to the door. I’m reaching for the doorknob—holding my breath as I lean in so I won’t be distracted by his swoon-worthy smell, when his arm is suddenly around my waist.

  A second later I’ve been spun through the air and pressed up against the door and Jake Falcone’s face is a breath away from mine.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he says softly. “But I think we should get the kissing practice out of the way. If we’re going to have trouble making it look natural, I’d like to know sooner rather than later.”

  Before I can answer, his mouth is on mine and my lips are igniting with a sizzle heard around the world. Some small, squeaky part of me insists that I should try to play it cool, but the rest of me is too busy responding to care.

  I’m not cool; I’m on fire.

  As I twine my arms around Jake’s shoulders and he pulls me close enough to feel every hard, muscled inch of his fantastic body pressed tight to mine, my skin flushes so hot it feels like I’m the one with a low grade fever. His tongue slips between my lips, and his hands cup my ass, and I melt into him, into this kiss that is the most erotic thing to happen to my body in years.

  We kiss and kiss, until my insides turn to lava and my mind turns to mush and all I’m thinking about is Jake’s lips and his tongue and his big hands and the pulse beating thick and heavy between my legs, begging for him to put all those wonderful parts of himself to even better use.

  By the time he pulls away I’m dizzy, breathless, and ready to strip off my clothes and race him naked to my bedroom.

  Or maybe pull him to the floor right here by the door.

  Who needs a bed? Not me. I don’t need a bed or sweet talk or answers to uncomfortable questions. I just need Jake naked and hard and ready for me to ride him like Seabiscuit across the finish line.

  Bad, Shane! Bad!

  No one is riding anyone like Seabiscuit or any other legendary racehorse. Get a handle on yourself, Willoughby!

  “Well, then,” I whisper, too buzzed on Jake’s kiss to take the inner voice too seriously. “Guess you’re pretty good at that.”

  “You’re not bad yourself.” His voice is husky and thick, sending visions of racehorses thundering through my head all over again. “I think that’ll work out just fine.”

  “Just fine,” I echo with a happy sigh.

  His lips curve in a smile that destroys what’s left of my panties. “Text you later, doc. Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” I mumble, somehow managing to move aside so he can let himself out the door.

  I remain upright until I hear the elevator close behind him and the hum of the car moving down toward the ground level. Only when I’m certain that he’s really gone do I sink to the floor, close my eyes, and drop my forehead to my knees, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  From the texts of Adeline “Addie” Klein and Shane Willoughby

  Addie: So how did it go? Are you okay?

  Shane: I’m fine.

  Addie: Just fine?

  That’s all I’m getting?

  I need details, woman! Was it a productive meeting? Was he easy to talk to? Do you think you’ll be able to help him?

  Shane: I signed a non-disclosure agreement, Addie. That means I am, by law, forbidden to disclose details. But yes, I think I can help him.

  At least I’m going to try.

  Addie: That’s amazing! He’s nice isn’t he? You think he’s nice now, don’t you? Now that you’ve met him and seen the man behind the Dragon…

  Shane: Nice isn’t the word I would use.

  But yes, meeting him changed my opinion about a few things.

  Addie: Things like how insanely hot he is?

  And how you can’t wait to make out with him like it’s your job because it WILL be your job, you lucky duck? ;)

  Shane: Oh, stop! Don’t be silly.

  Addie: I wish I had a job that involved kissing sexy hockey players.

  I’m sooooo jealous.

  Shane: You are not. It’s going to be hard work.

  Addie: Hard like his abs? I bet his abs are rock hard.

  Did you get to feel them yet?

  Shane: Adeline!

  I cannot disclose any of that, and even if I could, I don’t kiss and tell.

  Addie: OMG you’ve kissed him already?!!!

  Your lips have touched Jake “The Dragon” Falcone’s!

  You lucky slut! Was it unbelievably awesome?

  TELL MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

  Shane: Who are you and what have you done with my sweet, well-mannered friend who has probably never called someone a slut in her entire life?

  Addie: Sorry!

  I’ve had too much caffeine. I’ll probably need a Xanax to calm me down.

  You’re not a slut, not even a little bit. I was just kidding.

  Shane: I know that, Addie. I was kidding back ;).

  Addie: Oh. Good!

  Well, I’m glad it went well, even if you are taking all the fun out of things by being so ladylike.

  Shane: I’m gl
ad it went well, too.

  And, Addie…

  Addie: Yes?

  Shane: From what I can tell, every inch of that man is rock hard.

  Addie: OMG I KNEW IT!! fainting emoji

  Shane: Lol. I have to go, Bash is texting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  From the texts of Shane Willoughby and Sebastian “Bash” Prince

  Bash: I’m assuming you listened to my voice message by now, Mess?

  Shane: Yes, and I agree. If there’s any more violence, I’ll insist that Jake go to the police. I promise.

  Bash: Good.

  And next time I call, answer. I don’t like leaving worried voice messages.

  It makes me feel old.

  Shane: Well, you are getting up there. Thirty-three next month, right?

  Bash: Fuck, yes. Don’t remind me.

  And tell Penny not to plan a surprise party. I found a gray hair the other day, and that’s not the kind of thing I want to celebrate.

  If I start rewarding my body for shit like that, the next thing you know I’ll be bald. Or need reading glasses. Or my metabolism will crap out and my gallbladder will decide it’s too delicate to process fat and I’ll have to start eating sorbet instead of real ice cream.

  And if that happens, I might as well be dead, Shane.

  Dead.

  Shane: Got it. I’m making a note right now—

  Tell Penny that Bash is having a melodramatic melt down and needs an ice cream surprise party. No sorbet.

  Bash: Perfect.

  And touch base with me soon, okay? I want to keep on top of this intervention since it’s your first time in the ring.

  Shane: Gotcha, boss.

  Jake actually just texted. We’re going to work on the questionnaire.

  Bash: Excellent. Keep up the good work, and thanks again for taking this on.

  I can tell already, you’re going to be great.

  Shane: fingers crossed

  CHAPTER TEN

  From the Texts of Shane Willoughby and Jake “the Dragon” Falcone

  Jake: Hey, it’s me.

  Thought we could answer some of these questions. You busy?

  Shane: Nope. I’m Shane Francesca Willoughby. Thirty-two years old. Scorpio.

  Jake: Jake Anthony Tobias Falcone. Thirty years old. Taurus.

  So I guess I should respect your authority.

  Shane: Because I’m an older woman?

  Jake: Because you’re a Scorpio. My mom used to write horoscopes for our local paper. She said you should never cross a scorpion.

  Shane: That’s right, Falcone, don’t cross me. No matter how much your stubborn Taurus head might want to.

  Jake: Bulls are also known for being patient and friendly, you know.

  Shane: I’ll try to remember that if I ever see you being patient or friendly.

  Jake: Ouch.

  But I guess I deserve that. I wasn’t on my best behavior today.

  Shane: Your behavior was fine. I was just joking.

  Moving on to number two: any known allergies?

  Jake: Nope.

  Shane: Good. I’m allergic to hairy caterpillars, but only if I inhale.

  Jake: Is that another joke?

  Shane: A bad one, lol. Sorry.

  But it’s also true.

  If inhaled, caterpillar hair can cause anaphylactic shock in people who are sensitive to the toxin. I’m sensitive.

  Jake: That’s wild. How did you find out you’re allergic to something like that?

  Shane: I was camping with my parents when I was little. We were watching a bunch of pine caterpillars crawling up a tree and all of a sudden I started swelling up. My dad was allergic to beestings so he happened to have an EpiPen on him. If he hadn’t, chances are I would have died before we got back to our tent, let alone to a hospital.

  Jake: So you carry one of those EpiPens with you all of the time?

  Should I learn how to use it? Just in case?

  Shane: I do carry one all the time, but no, you don’t have to learn how to use it. You don’t run into too many hairy caterpillars in NYC. I haven’t had a reaction since that first time.

  But that’s thoughtful of you.

  Jake: Friendly, patient, and thoughtful. Typical Taurus.

  Also, reliable and stable.

  I knew there were a few good things I left out before.

  Shane: Humble, too.

  Jake: I try.

  People who don’t cover their mouth when they cough.

  Shane: Excuse me?

  Jake: Number three, pet peeves. I can’t stand it when people don’t cover their mouths when they cough. And assholes who stand right in front of the subway door instead of moving into the car are pretty high on my shit list, too.

  Shane: Omg, I hate those people! They suck so hard.

  Almost as hard as people who throw their trash on the street when there’s a damn trashcan half a block up.

  Jake: Yes! Fuck, those lazy fucks.

  We don’t all want to live in your trashcan, ass-wipe.

  Shane: Right? And people who don’t clean up after their dogs!

  Grr! What is wrong with them?

  Jake: Exactly! What kind of miserable excuse for a human being do you have to be to leave a steaming pile of crap on the ground for someone to come along and step in?

  Shane: A steaming pile of stupid human.

  A giant, living poop emoji without the smiley face.

  And don’t even get me started on people who refuse to recycle. I mean, I get that they don’t care if their grandchildren have a habitable planet but maybe the rest of us would like to leave the next generation something better than an overheated garbage palace infested with plague and pestilence.

  Jake: Yes!

  To all of that.

  I like you…

  Shane: You like how easily irritated I am by other human beings?

  Jake: Yes. People are the worst. I avoid them as much as possible.

  Shane: So I’ve heard…

  I’m assuming that’s why I can’t find a single picture of you out on a date where you aren’t glaring and looking grumpy?

  Jake: I’m not a fan of paparazzi, either.

  Or anyone else who wants to take my picture without warning me about it at least a week in advance.

  Shane: I get it, but you’re always scowling, buddy. Even in the shots when it doesn’t seem like you know anyone is taking your picture.

  Jake: I like to keep my game face on. I save the other stuff for when my date and I are alone.

  Shane: It’s amazing they agree to be alone with you if you refuse to smile until you’ve got them behind closed doors.

  Very serial killer-y, dragon.

  Jake: No, serial killers are nice up front, crazy in the back. Like a mullet.

  Shane: Lol.

  Jake: Besides, I’m not an asshole to the women I go out with. I just don’t smile a lot.

  Shane: That’s a shame. You have a beautiful smile.

  Jake: Well…thank you.

  I haven’t smiled much lately. Until today.

  It was nice.

  Shane: You’re nice, but I wouldn’t have been interested in going anywhere with you unless I’d seen you smile a little. Not to be a jerk, but I’m kind of baffled by your success with women.

  I guess I’m underestimating the appeal of the professional hockey player thing.

  Jake: It’s helpful. I won’t lie.

  But I like to think I have a few other things going for me.

  I’m a decent kisser, for example…

  Shane: I’m serious, Falcone. Don’t try to change the subject.

  We need to get past this dark, broody thing.

  We want Keri to believe that I’m the girl who finally broke through your crusty, scaly dragon exterior to the squishy, cuddle-monster hiding inside. That’s not going to happen if you look constipated and grouchy when we’re together.

  Jake: Nothing sexier than constipation.

  Shane: Sexiness is no
t required for this part of the process.

  Jake: Too bad.

  Are you still wearing that fluffy sweater?

  Shane: No…

  Why?

  Jake: I could probably manage to smile more if you wear that sweater every time we’re together. It was so fucking soft.

  I never wanted to stop touching it.

  Shane: Well…good.

  I have the same one in light blue. I’ll wear it tomorrow.

  Maybe it will help you come out of your shell.

  But in case we run into trouble, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging for the public portion of our orientation to be only semi-public, and attended by people I know we can trust not to talk.

  If we can’t pull off crazy-in-love on our first try, we don’t want the paparazzi getting any pictures of our practice sessions.

  Jake: Good luck with that. Those fuckers are everywhere. Especially now.

  But I’m not worried about awkward. I think we’ll work well together.

  Worst-case scenario, I could just kiss you the entire time.

  Seems like we’re pretty good at that.

  Shane: I don’t think we should resort to kissing for two hours. We’re supposed to be in love, not acting like horny teenagers sucking face in the park.

  Jake: Disgusting description, Willoughby. Let’s go back to constipation.

  Shane: Ha. Ha.

  Seriously, though, I’ve got a safe space ready for us.

  A good friend at the Met owes me a favor. Meet me on the roof of the museum tomorrow at six p.m. Bring your paperwork and we can go through the rest of the questionnaire in person. Texting is good, but I’m exhausted. I’m one of those up-at-five-a.m. people who runs out of steam after ten.

  Jake: I’m not much of a night owl, either.

  I’ll let you go, but let’s talk number eight first.

  Shane: Phobias? Yes, lets.

  That’s something I should definitely know about.

  Jake: I don’t have any real phobias, but I am a very private person, and not just because I prefer to keep my personal matters personal. It’s my family.

  Growing up, everyone in my neighborhood had something to say about the Falcones—ugly stories that most of the time weren’t even true, but they still ripped apart the people I care about.

  But it’s not like that anymore.