by Kira Graham
With that, I’m left standing alone in the middle of the restaurant, my mind blank except for the very real understanding that I just got played by what appears to be a master, and I didn’t know it until it was too late. She’s gone, her exit trailed by four other women I now suddenly notice, all looking suspiciously like Cleo save for the varying shades of shocking red hair.
Well, shit.
My phone vibrates, and I answer it dazedly, falling back into my seat with a curse that is more shocked breath than words.
“That was brutal, man. Were her eyebrows orange? And what was with the spinster bun?” Ares chortles, going off on some tangent about his date and how pissed she was about the binoculars he brought to the restaurant.
I listen with only half an ear, my mind spinning, whirling, and planning my next move, because something is very clear to me now, something that has heat firing up my blood and determination filling my veins.
This isn’t over by a long shot, not even close, and by the time sweet Cleo knows what’s happened, she’ll be under me, moaning my name with the same intensity she displayed while licking that spoon.
“Put Achilles on the phone,” I bark, ignoring Ares’ grumbles before Achilles comes on, laughing so hard that I look across the restaurant to where he’s sitting at a table with his own date, her face pinched because he’s ignoring her.
“Dude. That was not Cleo Sweet,” he crows, cracking up when I pinch my nose and curse softly.
“No, brother. It really was,” I reply grouchily, my jaw twitching when he splutters and says something to Ares, and then both fools crack up so loudly that I hear them from across the restaurant. And through the phone.
“Dude, that couldn’t have been Cleo Sweet. Trust me. I’ve seen photos of her. Unless…”
“This is war,” I growl, shoving my chair back and stalking out, the sound of my brothers’ laughter following me all the way to my car.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I aim to meet the woman I was supposed to be on a date with.
Cleo
“Holy shit! Hoooooly shit, Cleo! Did you see that man?” Rose yells, her giggles turning to moans as she clutches at her heart and twirls in a circle.
I hiss at the thought of my sister and cousins swooning and perving over Hart and find myself cursing them silently as I rip off my dress and stalk, bare-boobed, into the guest bathroom, my ass jiggling in the hideous granny panties I’m wearing.
My mind is still spinning with regrets, relief, and a strangely unsettling sense of foreboding as I slap on some water and set to work scrubbing off the layers of itchy makeup and the remnants of that chocolate mousse I forced myself to eat, despite its bland taste and lack of sugar.
“Cleo!”
“I saw him, dammit,” I grouch, my body rebelling when I think about the way his expensive suit molded to his thighs and outlined a package I couldn’t help but regret rejecting.
It’s for the best. Do you hear me, woman? We don’t want to get trapped with a man right now. We have to focus.
The problem is, focus and work aren’t going to help me forget that I truly, really, honestly liked Hart. He was funny, sharing stories with me that instead of disgusting me, made me feel jealous and long to rip out the hair of any and all of the hussies he’d been with. I laughed my head off when he told me about some woman who stalked him, and laughed even harder when he confessed that one of his dates had turned out to be a vegan, something that did not go down well with his Greek mother, who thinks that calamari is as vegan as it gets. My own mom, bless her heart and poisonous cooking, would shit a brick if someone told her that meat wasn’t on the menu.
We’s carnivores, as Dad always says. We eat meat!
I liked that he spoke of his other dates with a fondness and respect that few men show towards the opposite sex, and I loved that he seemed to care about all of those women, even if they were just flings.
Most women would listen to him and assume he’s just a callous player out to get his dick wet, but I heard genuine respect in his voice, even when he was trying to convince me that he’s a heartless player who only cares about getting laid.
“And you still blew him off? Do you know who he is?” Rose screeches from the other side of the shower glass, her figure distorted by steam as she stomps around out there, waving her arms and muttering.
Of course I know who Hart is. He’s Achilles Hart’s older brother. I get it. She wants me to take one for the team so that she can meet Achilles.
But that is not happening. Like, ever! If I go anywhere near that man again, I will attack him like a wild animal, rip his pants off, and do things that could land me in jail if he decides to prosecute. The only reason I didn’t violate him over the table at dinner was his continual references to unplanned pregnancies—well, he didn’t talk about unplanned pregnancies so much as describe his younger brother as a case of “the sperm swimming up when it should have run down his daddy’s nut sack.” Give or take a few words, I’m practically quoting the man.
The point is, I don’t want to get pregnant! Which kept my libido in check. Which basically means that if I was on the patch, the pill, or anything else that would stop conception, I’d have been on his dick like a shot.
“Rose—”
“No! Don’t you say no, Cleotapra Sweet. I never ask you for anything, you bitch—never! And now I need something.”
“You need me to go out with a man who took one look at me and called me a spinster virgin, Rose. He actually said that, although I don’t think he realized that he said it out loud. It hurt my feelings! Okay, so maybe it didn’t, since that’s what we were going for, but it could have,” I yell through the shower spray, tittering again when I think about his initial mutterings.
The strange thing about dinner, though, is that by the end of our meal, we were talking like two friends, and, even stranger, I think he liked me! I think Hart actually liked talking to me and spending time with me. Which is great, if you consider the absolute wreck I was tonight, babbling one-word answers because I was staring at him and wondering what he’d do if I crawled under the table and—
“It wouldn’t have! We all know you’re about as sensitive as rhino hide. Come on, Cleo. Just go on another date,” she whines when I shut off the water and step out with my hand fumbling for a towel.
“Rosetta, the man didn’t even say goodbye when I left. I was not his type, and trust me, he was not mine,” I lie. “Besides, you helped me get ugly for this date. If you’d wanted things to progress, then why did you help make me look gross?” I ask, making my way out of the bathroom of the guest room toward my own room across the hall.
“Because I didn’t know that Chilli would be there! With another woman. I really thought the surfboard would do it this time,” she huffs, face-planting into my mattress with a wail.
Rolling my eyes, I slip into a pair of cotton sleep shorts and a tank, then twist my hair into a messy, un-brushed bun on top of my head, before sighing and sitting on the bed while Tee and the others trickle in, all carrying some sort of ice cream.
“Honey, you can’t buy the man’s affections, and you can’t keep trying to get his attention this way. Stalking him was funny in the beginning, when you were so crazed that you tried to buy him a Porsche, but it’s getting out of hand now. Achilles Hart either wants you or he doesn’t, and if he’s stupid enough not to want you, then you have to move on,” I say gently, exchanging a look with my cousins.
“But he’s perfect for me! And I’m perfect for him.”
“Sweetie, sometimes you just have to accept that things aren’t meant to be. Achilles—”
“Oh, shut up! If this is another ‘he’s not good enough for you’ speech, just drop it. He’s everything I want, and I will have him. Now, are you going to go on another date with his asshole brother so I can have an in with Chilli, or are you going to chicken out on me and force me to do something that Mom would have hysterics over?” she barks, the tears gone so fast that I blink and share a
grin with Sin.
“Rose, I just told you! Our date was a washout. We ate, we talked about how many women he’s screwed, and then I left. End of story. I don’t think I could hope for anything more here than a possible ‘she was interesting’ from Hart,” I tell her, frowning because it has just occurred to me that I don’t even know his first name.
Eh. I’ll just call him Hottie, I guess.
“Ugh! You suck,” she complains, her lips twitching when I quirk a brow.
No—in fact, I do not suck. Just ask any guy I’ve been with who’s asked for a blow job. The most I’ve ever done is some second-base groping, one hand job that made me sick to my stomach, and a fumbled sex act that did nothing but confirm to me that sex is gross, painful, and overrated.
Ooooh, but is it? What about Hart? I bet he knows his way around a woman’s body. I bet he’d even lick certain—
Oh, would you shut up? I am not having sex with that man. Well, not for real. I can fantasizes, though, and in those fantasies, I’ve gotten head and a very good orgasm from penetration.
“Um, soooo, is this a bad time to tell you that you’re talking to yourself? Not that I mind. I mean, this is really quite entertaining. For all of us,” Tee drawls, cackling when I curse and blush a bright scarlet.
Dammit.
See what happens when you work alone all day and have only yourself to talk to?
“So you liked him?” Sin asks, her smirk turning to a grimace when I slap her boob and snarl at them all.
Of course I liked him! He’s gorgeous, and he smelled good, and his dimples were amazing. But he’s keeper material, the kind of guy a woman looks at, sinks her claws into, and doesn’t let go of. He’s the “accidental” pregnancy kind of guy, the “Oops, honey, I think the pill didn’t work, so when are we getting married?” kind of guy.
He’s exactly what I don’t want or need in my life, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting him, I think, sighing loudly when I think of that mouth and those twinkling gray eyes.
Swoon.
“I didn’t like him! He’s an ass. He’s vain, he’s self-centered, and he told me about almost every sexual encounter he’s ever had,” I scoff, my funny bone tingling anew.
See, here’s the problem. I like stories, and, as I’ve said before, I like a good story that makes me long for one of my own. Love, romance, fairy tales, adventure.
In theory. In reality, I’m just a girl who owns a failing candy store and secretly writes in a journal. In short, I’m plain Cleo. Sedate, staid, and boring—and I like it that way. Contradictions are a mainstay of my life. I dream of an epic tale, but I strive for normalcy and balance.
God, my therapist would have a field day with this shit.
“So you’re saying that he knows he’s hot, he knows he’s interesting, and he gave you a glowing resume for the position of perfect sex partner?” Tee laughs, her eyes sparkling when I huff and give her a rueful grin.
“I’m not going out with him again, and no, it’s not just because I don’t want to”—lie!—“but because it’s a moot point. One date. Disaster. Over. Move on,” I mutter, grabbing a tub of double chocolate from Sin.
“Eh, you win some, you lose some. Who’s watched the last season of Game of Thrones? Oh my God, did you see that bitch burn down that city?”
And so we go, I think, getting wrapped up in a near-violent argument about the merits of hunting down the show’s producers and killing them. Slowly.
Sighing, I join the fray and spend the rest of the night eating ice cream and rewinding the DVR while Rose swoons over that Snow guy, and Tee makes flirtatious remarks about Arya Stark. All in all, it’s a good night.
Now if only I could stop thinking about Hart.
Chapter Five
Cleo
You know you’re having a bad day when the curling iron sets your hair on fire, you poke yourself in the eye with your eyeliner pencil and have to wear a doctor-ordered eye patch, and then come to work only to realize that your eye episode took place while you were wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt that says, “I’m not a sucker, I bite.” Then you look down and somehow accept that you’re sporting mustard-stained sweats, your hair is still smoldering a little and looks like a rat’s nest, and, horror of horrors, you aren’t wearing a bra under said t-shirt, and the thing is practically transparent.
This is my morning, and the afternoon doesn’t get any better when I remember that I didn’t pack a lunch, and I’m so hungry that I’d eat something that Mom cooked. Theoretically, at least.
I should have slept better last night, and I should have been paying attention to what I was doing this morning instead of having erotic fantasies about a man I don’t like. Dammit. I don’t like him. What the hell is wrong with me?
If I’d been paying attention, I wouldn’t have accidentally stepped on a piece of glass we missed while cleaning up the shower debacle, and I wouldn’t have slipped and slammed my lip into the bathroom counter, and dammit! Today is a bad day, and it’s only getting worse as the hours tick by.
I’m bored out of my skull because I have absolutely nothing to do, unless you count staring at row upon row of candy that isn’t getting sold because I have no customers. Not one.
When the bell above the door rang this morning, I almost tore something as I was running to the front of the shop, only to realize that the wind had blown the thing open because I hadn’t latched it properly.
“Cheer up, buttercup. It’ll pick up,” I mutter, eyeing a box of dark caramels that are calling to me so strongly that I can almost taste them. “What the hey?”
I may as well eat them, I think, grabbing the box from the shelf to my right with a grumble of disgust. I’m totally cheating on my diet today, but, to be fair, it’s gotten so bad that my cheat days have started outnumbering my on days.
My phone rings as I’m laying the first caramel on my tongue, and I moan through my hello, tasting the caramel melting and giving way to a dark chocolate filling that is so good, my eyes cross.
“Mmmmelllow!”
The line is silent, and, for a hot second, I consider saying something crude, just in case it’s one of my sisters pranking me, but the last time I did that, it turned out to be Mom, who did not take too kindly to being called a wart-riddled hooker.
“You usually answer the phone this way?” a deep voice drawls, the dark, husky rasp sending goose bumps all the way down my spine.
I know this voice, and even if my brain weren’t yelling the answer at me, the fact that my nipples respond and go tight, as well as the clenching ache that settles in my groin—well, it all gives me a body-tingling answer. Hart. Dammit! Hart is calling me, and, for a nanosecond, I go as gooey as the caramel on my tongue, the melting feeling coming on so strongly that I moan again before I can catch myself.
Danger! Danger, Cleo Sweet. This is the one who makes your ovaries respond, my mind hisses, the dual voices urging me to both throw the phone down immediately, and titter like a schoolgirl because my hot crush is calling me.
My good brain wins, though, the one that tells me that I liked Hart way too much and that I should steer clear of him. What the hell is he even calling me for, anyway? Didn’t we already establish that we’re not a good match? I thought we’d already decided and agreed that he’s a disgusting pig, and I’m just some frumpy nobody that he wouldn’t have sex with in a million years!
“Uh…Hart?” I croak, praying futilely that it isn’t him, even as my sluggish brain keeps slurring that it is.
Is it possible to be sex-drunk over the phone, just hearing a man’s voice? I wonder blearily, my chest aching because it wants to pant like a dog in heat even as I force myself to breathe as evenly as I can.
“Who else, oh Cleo-mine? You left so hastily last night that I didn’t have the chance to grab your number. Or anything, really. You know, thinking back on that shitty date, I now realize that I don’t know anything about you at all.”
“Well, you did spend almost two hours telling me wha
t a filthy sex addict you are,” I point out ruefully, despising the smile that tips my mouth, because I still find it funny.
Funny! As if it’s endearing that he’s…I mean, this man is so casual and unemotional about sex. I should be furious that he sees women as sex objects, and even more furious that he doesn’t have the decency to be ashamed that he’s a superficial asshole. Instead, I want to giggle when he groans dramatically, the sound obviously meant to convey offense.
“Why, Cleo, you wound me. I shower twice a day. I’m as clean as a whistle, unless you want to dirty me up?” he purrs, the innuendo both shocking and thrilling me.
“Oh, shut up, pig. We already established that you disgust me.” All lies.
You’re going to hell for being a filthy liar, Cleo. Filthy. Liar.
And yes, I would love to dirty Hart up. For hours. Problem is, I’m not exactly batting a thousand in the sex World Series. Damn you, Cleo, why couldn’t you be a whore like Sin or Tee?
“Disgust, or fascinate? Come now, honey, admit you liked what you saw.”
“My eyes are fickle, dude—I never trust them. My mind, though, tells me that you’re a pretty package hiding an empty center,” I counter, grinning when he mock-gasps, the sound as dramatic as the sounds I usually make when Dad tries to force me to eat Mom’s food.
“You wound me, fair maiden.”
“Yeah, right.” I snort, my mouth curling into a smile as I settle into the conversation, the caramels and everything else forgotten.
“Too right. A man’s got feelings, babe.”
“You only have feelings below your belt, Hart,” I snort again, my amusement climbing when I hear a chuckle from his end.
“Not true, and yet I can’t help but find your heartless assessments amusing, Sweet.”