by Kira Graham
“I’m so glad that I can provide you with entertainment, Hart—so glad. And as much as I’m enjoying bringing you down a peg or two, I’ve realized a few things. First, you called me on my cell, and I distinctly remember not giving you this number. And second, this call is not one I would have expected after…whatever you call last night. I refuse to call it a date since all I got to do was listen to you unpack your laundry.”
“I was just being honest, babe. Any relationship has to start with honesty.”
Now I laugh, and heartily, because “relationship” is a bit of a stretch, to say the least. What we had was a few hours of back-and-forth banter, during which he strove like hell to highlight what a bad bet he is in the relationship arena, and I tried my damndest not to fall in lust with a man like Hart. What we shared was more of a battle, a tug-of-war where the grand prize was nothing more complicated than a declaration of intent. I intended to make him dislike me on sight, and Hart intended to make our date into a porno of epically uninspiring proportions. Simply put, we both won. So I don’t get why he’s calling me.
I won’t lie and say I don’t like it, though, even as I try not to like it. Oh, for God’s sake! Why do I like this guy? It just doesn’t make any sense.
“We don’t have a relationship, idiot. We had one disastrous shared meal while my sisters sat two tables down, and at least one of your brothers acted as wingman for you while ignoring his date,” I point out, my mouth curling into a smile of delight when he laughs again.
No, vagina! No. We want a boring, completely normal husband. In three or four years, give or take a decade.
“We had a test run! We filled out applications and questionnaires, nothing more. Our next date—”
“We are not having a next date, Hart,” I cut in, desperately.
Because my whole body is screaming yes, and the hussy in my head is already planning my outfit, sans ugly cardigan and dyed eyebrows. I see hooker dresses, no panties, and push-up bras I don’t even own as she dresses me. For breeding.
“But I want a do-over, Sweet. A chance to show you a good time,” he pleads, his voice a raspy drawl that I bet makes all the ladies swoon.
I wanna swoon, too, but common sense wins out, and I find myself shaking my head, even as I deny him.
“No way. I have better things to do with my life than spend another chunk of it listening to you brag about bagging the ladies. Face it, man, we had an epic fail. The best we can hope for in this scenario is friendship.”
Why, oh why? Why, Cleo? You don’t want to be friends. Friends means spending time together and…and being close to each other. Time that you can’t afford to spend too close to this guy when you know you want to violate him. Dammit.
I’m praying for his ego to be stung, anything that will rescue me from my epic mistake, but seeing as how my luck’s been going lately, the fool latches on to my offer and seems to run with it. When I was secretly hoping he wouldn’t! Dammit. There is something wrong with me.
“I can do friends. Yeah,” he muses, so slowly that I can almost see him smiling easily. “I don’t have many of those, and let’s face it, dating was going to be a stretch when we’re obviously not attracted to each other. Friends is great, though!”
Sheesh. Just sheesh.
“Uh…”
“I’ll pick you up tonight. We can go down to the beach and walk along the water while we watch Achilles try to surf.”
Now we both laugh because I know Rose bought that man a surfboard as a gag gift. Only, it seems he’s taking it seriously. Something I find hilarious because Chilli Hart isn’t the most graceful of men.
“We’re not hanging out tonight. I have to work, and besides, I told you that I don’t like you.”
Oh Lord, I’m going to have to go to church for a week straight to save my soul. If Mom finds out, she’ll have me praying for hours tonight.
“You totally like me, Cleo-mine. A man knows these things, and besides, you can’t possibly miss out on seeing Achilles bail off that board. Come on. I’ll even buy you an ice cream after we eat hot dogs and pig out on boardwalk tacos,” he wheedles.
Damn him. Somehow, this demon knows that food of any kind is my weakness. I don’t discriminate when it comes to food, unless Mom’s evil hands have cooked it. This isn’t a good idea, and my good sense tells me that, as does the butterfly tingle that fills me when I think of seeing Hart. The problem I’m having here isn’t that I don’t like him. I like him a lot. Too much.
Plainly put, he’s the first man I’ve ever met that I really and truly like, despite knowing what an ass he is, and maybe even a little because he’s an ass. It’s that honesty, you see. I like honesty no matter how ugly the truth can be sometimes, and, for those reasons, I like Hart. Enough to know that this is a bad, bad idea. Practically speaking, he’s probably on board with us being friends, and he possibly thinks that he dodged a bullet by avoiding a wannabe crazy stalker like me. It runs in the family—just ask Rose, not to mention Dad, who stalked Mom before she finally caved and gave him the time of day.
So the question is, can I be friends with Hart, fully knowing how attracted I am to him in terms of both body and personality? And being well aware that he’s probably more than okay with being just friends? Dammit, that hurts my ego a little.
The answer is…I’m dumb. And I really wanna see Chilli bail off a surfboard. Aaaand, run. Because I am definitely telling Rose where he’ll be.
“Corn dogs, not hot dogs, and I want extra fudge sauce on my ice cream. And when I’m done, we’re done. And I’m driving my car there, so you’re not picking me up,” I warn, planning my exit strategy in advance before I do something stupid like get stuck in a car with Hart for far longer than my self-control can possibly handle.
I hear him sigh, and then something creaks, as if he’s leaning back in his chair and getting comfortable. For some reason, I like that. Maybe because I’m doing the same thing and settling in for a long conversation, even as I ignore the common sense yelling at me to get this over with. But friendship requires time, right? I mean, it’s like one of the cardinal rules, isn’t it?
“Fine, but I’m buying.”
“Like I was going to refuse. I can’t afford to be getting the check, Hart, and my feminism meter stops pinging when I get offered one of the things I love, free food. Now, since we’re all chummy now, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself, other than the fact that your dick should have melted off from some disease a long time ago?” I ask snarkily, smiling when he chuckles.
“Not too much to tell, really. I’m the oldest of five boys, my ma is Greek, my pop is some form of American mutt, and I own and run Hart Inc., a global enterprise that my pop started, but which is going to explode one of these days thanks to acquisitions. I like fancy cars, fancy clothes, and even fancier food, but simple is cool, too. Unless it includes sleeping outdoors and doing froufrou shit like going on cheap but romantic dates.”
At that, I laugh, because I don’t think we could be more opposite. Thank God. I love camping because it means I don’t have to brush my hair every day, and I get to eat as many roasted hot dogs as I want without people judging me. I also like cheap dates because, let’s face it, my folks aren’t exactly too highbrow, no matter how rich they are. I grew up in a home where my mom considered hand-me-downs a way of life, and “fancy” was just another way of saying “snobby.”
“Well, I like cheap dates, I don’t do fancy unless Mom’s trying to stick it to someone, and clothes are my arch enemy,” I retort, grinning when he sighs.
“You’re lying. All women love clothes. The more expensive, the better.”
“Nuh-uh. Last week, I found this killer kilt at the dollar store, and I bought it. It’s blue and pink, and someone must have made it at home, but it’s one of my favorite things to wear right now. I wore it two days in a row, along with my six-year-old combat boots and a gray sweater I stole from Dad because it’s so comfy.”
“You bought a secondhand sk
irt? And wore it? What if there’d been something wrong with it?” he yells, sounding so disgusted that I giggle and shrug despite his not being able to see me.
“Like what? I washed it, and it was perfectly fine.”
“It could have been flea-infested. Or stained with fluids, Cleo. Jesus. Don’t ever tell my ma you buy used shit. She’ll have you in decontamination so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”
“Oh, come on. It was just a skirt. That cardigan I wore last night was another secondhand buy. And the purse was practically free, even though it’s designer.”
“Please wear something store-bought tonight,” he pleads, his voice so weak that I can practically see him shuddering.
This I find more than funny, and I tell him so. Hart is a germophobe, one of those people who imagine the worst of everything and think that everything is either dirty or out to kill them. I laugh so hard that he eventually snarls something very uncomplimentary about my state of mind and slams the phone down.
I can’t stop chortling all day as I finish the box of caramels, watch the door like a hawk, praying constantly that someone will come inside, and think about the fact that not only did I succeed in driving away a man I am sick in lust with, I’ve made him shudder at the thought of being around me. Mama’s right—I do have a talent for these things.
I don’t know if that’s a win, but I am so taking it, if only to assure myself that Mom’s project has been well and truly derailed. Humming along, I notice that my mood is surprisingly bright despite the lack of customers and the fact that I’m definitely, probably going to go out of business. That should scare me, and, if I were smarter than this, it would also scare me that Hart has managed to lift my spirits despite my situation.
For right now, I’m taking it as a win.
“You know, talking to yourself is one of the first signs of mental illness,” a voice drawls, making me shriek and twist around so fast that I lose my footing on the ladder and fall back.
With my arms pinwheeling and my eyes closing tightly a second before my ass makes contact with the floor, I feel my soul groan as I open my eyes and meet the laughing blue evil that is Tee’s sedate, somewhat amused gaze.
“Jesus. You scared the shit outta me,” I grunt, wincing when I rise and feel my ass give a pulse of protest.
Tee sidles in, looking as chic as hell in a cardigan set and skirt that show off her killer body. Bitch doesn’t work around candy all day—that’s all I’m sayin’.
I like her, though, and since she’s technically my sister and my cousin, I sorta love her. Enough to hand her a box of her favorite cherry chocolates for free, and then wave her over to the counter, where coffee awaits. Of all my sibs, I think Tee’s the least crazy. She’s got one hell of a temper, but as personalities go, this is one redhead who thinks before she kills. Literally. She plans revenge. Methodically. And so coldly that I sometimes shudder at the thought of pissing her off.
“You’re humming. Who touched your lady garden?” she asks, giggling when I blush and hiss out a curse.
“No one! Jesus. Who’s going to touch me while I’m stuck in here all day, rearranging candy a million times?” I huff, flushing a little because I did once.
It was one lousy time, but I was so bored that I read a romance novel, and that shit was awesomely hot. It happened one time. Leave it to Tee to walk in and catch me. Freaking hell.
“I heard from Rose that Chilli said that you and Hart are friends,” she teases, making “friends” sound like a dirty word akin to wild and crazy sex, rather than a platonic, completely innocent relationship involving absolutely no sex whatsoever.
Jeez, Cleo.
“We’re not friends. He’s just trying to be friends because he feels bad about our date,” I grumble, still a little peeved that he hooked on to the idea of friends so readily.
I mean, would it be too much to ask that someone find me attractive and cool enough to at least take a second to think about my being more than friends material?
“Did he say that?” she asks, moaning as she shoves a chocolate into her mouth.
Honestly, my candy is the bommmb. No one who tastes it can withstand the flavors, and, as with almost everyone I am related to, Tee throws her head back, closes her eyes, and moans as if she’s just gotten laid. Hard.
“No? I dunno. He was being weird, and he caught me off guard by calling my cell,” I mutter, eyeing the empty box of caramels with a snarl.
I’m going to look like Mama June if people don’t start buying my candy. And I’ll be fat and broke, still living with Mom and Dad because I keep giving it away to the people I love.
“I think he likes you,” she mumbles around a mouthful of half-chewed chocolate, proving definitively that no matter who supplied the egg and the sperm, this girl is all Sweet.
Funnily enough, the aunts all married Dad’s brothers, like some sort of redneck convention that came together into an unholy trinity twenty-some years ago. So I’m guessing that no matter how good the Sweet genes are, the O’Malley ladies dominated the gene pool that time around…
“He doesn’t,” I mumble, cutting off my useless thoughts, because if there’s one thing I can’t do, it’s be distracted while talking to Tee.
Of all my sibs—yeah, we’re all sibs even if Tee, Sin, and Alex are cousins—Tee is the most bloodthirsty. She’s like…war. She’s conflict. I don’t think that Tee can go one day without ruffling someone’s feathers and calling out a battle cry. Ironic, since she’s an anger management counselor. I shit you not.
“He totally likes you. Rose was right!” she crows, laughing when I flush and say like ten prayers that she’s wrong.
I can do friendship with Hart if the only sexual fantasies involved are my own. If he’s into…whatever I was last night—shudder—then I am so screwed. Figuratively, that is.
“Shut up.”
“No! You shut up and stop denying it.”
“He said we’re friends,” I pout, hating myself for feeling sorry for myself.
I mean, it was my idea. I should be happy about it. And I am. I don’t have many friends to call upon, but, in my defense, with four killers constantly shadowing me—and, well, Mom isn’t exactly sparkles and rainbows, either—it’s not like I can just make friends. I do try, though, and—
“So I told Rose you’d do it. And you will,” I hear, the words cutting off my thoughts as dread fills me.
I haven’t heard one stinking word that preceded whatever it is Tee wants me to do, and that is bad, bad, bad. Because if I just say yes, I could potentially be participating in a murder, and once a Sweet gives his or her word, it’s written in stone. The other problem is that I can’t promise something I don’t know anything about, not only for the above reasons, but also because I can’t tell Tee that I was off in my own head while she was speaking. The last person who did that is missing the tip of his pinky finger, and although Tee’s dad laughs about it, it must suck a lot to be missing a piece of his anatomy.
Sigh.
“I’m not doing jack,” I mutter, praying to God that she repeats at least part of what she’s been saying.
Eyeing my fingers, I try to decide which one I use the least or don’t like, but dammit, they’re all cute! Don’t freak out—she promised never to do that again, I tell my fingers when they curl into claws, ready and willing to give Tee a beat-down in the event of any sort of lunge and snapping teeth.
“But Cleo, she’s getting crazier by the day with this Chilli business! Just help her out and steal the key when you see Hart,” she whines, her eyes blazing when I frown and shake my head, confusion filling me.
“I’m not stealing anything.” And just like that, a light bulb goes on inside my head. “And besides, how did you make that promise to Rose when you didn’t even know that Hart had called me?” I hiss, my eyes narrowing suspiciously when Tee’s back goes stiff and her eyes flit to the door.
I may be the mildest Sweet around, except for Dad, but that doesn’t mean that I can’
t throw down with the most vicious of them. Namely Tee and Sin, who both bite and pull hair.
“Now, Cleo, you know what I’ve told you about that temper of yours,” she murmurs, her voice going soft and low, as if she’s trying to soothe a wild animal.
I realize now, with that light bulb not just flickering but blazing to glorious life, that someone must have given Hart my number. Goddammit!
“My temper’s just fine, Nefertiti! It’s my sense of betrayal that you should fear. How did Hart get my number?” I ask softly, every word a hiss of air that gets more forceful as she makes her way toward the door, smartly keeping her back to it in case I attack.
When she rips the thing open, sprints out, and almost trips in her heels, I wait a full minute before I start laughing.
Ahhhh. Today’s turning out to be a good one.
Chapter Six
Adonis
I whistle jauntily as I step out of my custom Jag and place my socks and dress shoes behind the seat, slipping my feet into comfortable sandals that go perfectly with my shorts and the polo I changed into before leaving work.
After my very instructive call this morning, it’s become clear to me that Cleo Sweet and I are not a good match. She likes ugly clothes, while I like pretty clothes on beautiful women. She’s introspective and has a derisive sense of humor, while I like to be a little superficial and laugh at others, never at myself.
We’re polar opposites in every way that should count, and yet the longer I sat at my desk today, with my work going undone and piling up so fast that I found myself frowning at the fact that it was just a normal day for me, the more I couldn’t shake the feeling that Cleo and I are perfect for each other. She’s sweet and smart, and while I don’t know much of anything about her, my curiosity is killing me. Add to that the intensely erotic dreams I had last night of her riding me while wearing nothing but that puke-colored sweater thing, and what I know is that I just can’t forget about Cleo.
Chances are, I’ll spend a week, maybe a little more, on her, and once the mystery is gone, I’ll move on. Like I always do.