The Test

by Fenske, Tawna

  I have to admit, I’d like to know. But I tamp back my curiosity in favor of getting to the point. “Here’s the thing,” I begin. “I slept with you because it seemed like the exact opposite of what my normal instincts would be. The opposite kind of guy, the opposite circumstances, the opposite type of sex.”

  “Type of sex?”

  “Type,” I repeat, not sure how much to spell out. “Lotus position on the couch with all our clothes still on, as opposed to—I don’t know—missionary position under the covers with a tasteful negligee cast aside at precisely the right moment.”

  “Lotus position?” Dax grins. “Did you just turn our hot, spontaneous animal sex into something that sounds like a floral arrangement?”

  “Exactly!” I smack the couch with the back of my hand, startling us both. He probably thinks I’m nuts, but he doesn’t move away.

  “Look, the sex was amazing,” I say.

  “You mentioned that.”

  “I’d like to try a test,” I tell him. “Not an ‘are we compatible’ quiz from Cosmo or anything like that,” I clarify when I see his brow crease. “A test of my own instincts.”

  “How do you mean?” He sounds dubious, but also interested. I take that as a good sign.

  “Well, since doing the opposite of my instincts went so well this time, what if I tried it for a whole month? Like every time I have a decision to make, I do whatever the opposite of that would be.”

  “Are we talking strictly sex, here?”

  I shake my head as I feel heat creep into my cheeks. “Some sex, yes. But not just that.”

  “Give me an example,” he says. “A non-sex one.”

  “I don’t know.” I fumble around in my brain for something that doesn’t involve sex, but it’s tough to do with Dax sitting beside me looking like sin on a stick. “Say my normal breakfast is a whole-wheat bagel with low-fat, artisan Neuchâtel cheese and a smattering of lox with homemade capers and a side of organic berries. Instead of that, I might have…I don’t know—”

  “Chocolate chip pancakes?” Dax offers.

  “Yes!”

  I can’t read anything from his expression. Does he think I’m crazy, or is he seriously considering this? He takes his time responding. “Are you asking me to be your tour guide to chocolate chip pancakes?”

  I nod, thinking it sounds weirder when he puts it that way. I hold my breath, wondering if I’ve just ruined a good thing. If I’ve just made an ass of myself or offended him or screwed this up in some other typically-Lisa fashion.

  “Look, I know I’m asking you for a favor here, but maybe there’s something I can barter with.” I flutter my lashes, hoping he gets the message, but guessing he thinks I have dust in my eye. “I’m sure there’s something else I can offer.”

  I graze his knee with my hand, hoping to drive the point home. Dax stares at it a moment, then looks at me. “Oh, you’ve got plenty to offer.”

  I wait for him to spell it out. To tell me what might make my proposal appealing for him. If I go through with The Test, I want us both to benefit. I want Dax to tell me what would make it worthwhile for him.

  He lifts a hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I shiver from the warmth of his touch. From the fact that I want more of it. A lot more.

  “I accept.”

  I blink. “Really?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Today was fun. And if you’re after someone to suggest biker bars and best practices for keg-stands, I think I can help you out.”

  I start to ask what’s in it for him, but I stop myself. That’s hardly a good negotiating tactic.

  But Dax reads my mind anyway. “Let’s just say I enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

  Well, okay then.

  The word pleasure ricochets through my mind, making me shiver.

  It’s then that I pledge to have as much sex as possible with Dax Kensington before The Test is through. It’s the least I can do for the sake of science, right?

  Chapter Six

  Dax

  Twenty-four hours later, I’m sitting in my La-Z-Boy with ESPN on the TV and a bag of barbecue chips in my lap, wondering what the hell just happened.

  Not with the football game, though God knows I’ve been too distracted to pay much attention to the score.

  The second Lisa marched out of her bedroom yesterday with her perfectly retouched hair and an “I have a plan” look on her freshly made up face, I knew she was up to something.

  I just didn’t know something would be a proposal to fuck each other silly while I introduce her to—well, whatever the opposite of “the finer things in life” would be. Slumming it?

  She judged right that I know what that is. But she judged wrong that it’s all I know. Seeing her expression when she realized I’m loaded was priceless.

  It’s also the reason I agreed to The Test.

  The chance to grudge fuck a hoity princess from the other side of the tracks? Sign me up.

  Okay, fine. She’s not like other socialites I’ve known, especially my ex. I can admit that now. The hair color looked similar at first, but Lisa turned out to be nothing like I thought. She’s more fun than I expected. Not the polished kind of sexy, but the sweet, funny, smart-as-hell, blow-my-fucking-mind kind of sexy. Is it so surprising I’d want that again?

  I’m saved from answering my own douchey, defensive question when the phone rings.

  Lisa Michaels, the readout says, and I’m annoyed by how happy that makes me.

  “Yo,” I answer, getting into the spirit of The Test. That’s the opposite of how people in her circle would normally answer the phone, right?

  “Um, yo?” Lisa’s greeting comes out sounding more like a question, but then she laughs. “My normal instinct would be to wait for a guy to call me first after a date, so according to the rules of The Test, I’m calling you first.”

  “Very nice,” I say, more delighted than I ought to be. “You get a gold star and a cupcake.”

  She giggles, and I realize just how much I love that sound. “A cupcake,” she repeats. “That sounds nice. I could use one after the day I had.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “No, I just called to see if you might be free next Saturday for—”

  “You should, then.”

  “What?”

  “Talk about your day,” I say. “If your instinct says not to, then you should.”

  She’s quiet, probably wondering what the hell this has to do with our sex game. So am I.

  Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I enjoy the soft lilt of her voice on the phone. Maybe I want to hear about her day. Is that so weird?

  Lisa clears her throat. “I don’t like to complain about work to anyone.”

  “All the more reason you should,” I tell her. “Maybe it’ll feel better to not bottle things up inside.”

  “Well,” she starts slowly, hesitating. “First I had a client throw a royal fit because the drapes I ordered for her are more cornflower than cerulean.”

  “They both sound delicious.”

  She laughs. “Then I got a call from a couple I’ve been working with for six months to redesign their penthouse apartment,” she continues. “Apparently, they’re divorcing and want to cancel the job.”

  “Maybe they’ll move into separate homes and you’ll get to decorate both.”

  “That is a good thought.” There’s a clink of a glass, and I wonder if she’s sipping the rest of the wine from yesterday. I wish I were there with her to enjoy it, to rub her feet as she tells me about her day.

  Wait. What the hell is going on?

  “Anyway,” she says, “After that meeting, I took my sister-in-law to lunch, and even though we made it perfectly clear we needed a gluten-free meal, they brought out salads with croutons.”

  Something about her words annoys me. Makes me want to lash out about first-world problems and made-up dietary drama and—

  “Isn’t the gluten-free trend a little last year?” It’s a lame jab, but
it’s the best I’ve got.

  “Excuse me?”

  There’s an unexpected sharpness in her voice, and I can’t figure out why she’s getting so uptight. Kaitlyn got like that, too, always villainizing some new food group. First it was carbs, then dairy, then gluten. Never for any medical reason, mind you. She was just following the trend.

  “Look,” I tell Lisa, determined to do what she’s asked me. To break her out of that mold. “How about we go out for a nice, greasy pizza, and—”

  “For your information,” Lisa snaps, “Celiac disease is common in people with Down Syndrome. If Joni eats gluten, she’s sick for days.”

  It takes me a second to process what she’s just said—and the fact that I’m a total fucking dickhead. I swallow hard, trying to regroup. “You have a sister with Down Syndrome?”

  “Sister-in-law,” she corrects. “Well, technically, Cassie and Simon aren’t getting married for a few more months, but I think of his sister like one of my own. Anyway, we sent the salad back after she had one bite, but she had a stomachache when I dropped her off, and the whole thing made me feel awful.”

  I sit there in silence for a moment, wondering if I’ve misjudged Lisa. If I’ve written her off as an uptight princess who has to have everything her way. I start to apologize, but she’s already talking again.

  “Anyway, I think I’ll call the spa down the street to see if I can get in for a massage tomorrow,” she says. “That seems like a good way to decompress.”

  “No,” I tell her. “That’s what you’d normally do, right?”

  “Right,” she says slowly. “You’re not going to ban spa days, are you?”

  “Maybe not ban,” I tell her. “But if you’re looking to feel better, I have an idea for how to accomplish that.”

  The words come out more suggestive than I intended, and I know she’s taken them that way when she gives a funny little purr.

  “Well,” she says. “I like the sound of that.”

  My dick throbs at the thought of where she just went, but I order myself to stay cool. “I’ll call you at eight tomorrow morning with directions,” I tell her. “Dress like you’re going to get dirty.”

  Then I hang up, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

  Chapter Seven

  Lisa

  “You want me to scrub him where?”

  I blink at the friendly attendant who wears a perky ponytail and a rubber apron identical to the one draping my torso. She’s holding a mop-colored terrier and giving me an encouraging look.

  “Part of the intake process for grooming new rescue dogs is making sure they’re thoroughly clean,” she says with a lot more cheer than seems appropriate from someone uttering that combination of words. “All you need to do is lift the tail and—”

  “Didn’t Doctor Swanson say she wanted to check out some of the smaller guys?” Dax steps between us and touches my hip with one hand. The smile he’s giving the woman makes her quiver like a saucer of Jell-O, and I can’t say I blame her.

  He has that effect on me, too.

  “Oh.” Jell-O girl beams up at Dax. “Good point. And I suppose it is Lisa’s first day volunteering at Helping Paws.”

  “Exactly,” Dax agrees. “We want to keep her coming, don’t we?”

  His voice is liquid chocolate, and I shiver when he says that last part. He slides a glance at me, and I try to pretend I wasn’t just having dirty thoughts about him in the grooming suite at the dog rescue facility where he volunteers every weekend.

  According to Dax, today’s experience is the opposite of a spa day, which makes it perfect for The Test.

  It also makes for a very smelly experience. Wet and filthy and very, very stinky. I’m doing my best to be a good sport, but taking grooming tips from Jell-O Girl might be my tipping point.

  “So how about Lisa and I finish up in here,” Dax says to Jell-O girl, and I snap my attention to him. “And we can let Doc Swanson take care of the other details.”

  His hand is still touching my hip, and I’m amused to realize how much I like it there. And how much Jell-O girl does not. She shoots me a smile buttered with faux cheer and turns her attention back to Dax.

  “The vet just finished up with that Chihuahua, so I’ll just grab Scooter here and run him next door,” Jell-O girl says, still beaming at Dax like he gave her a pair of diamond studs and a G-spot orgasm.

  “That sounds fantastic,” Dax says, and it takes me a second to remember they’re not talking about orgasms.

  Jell-O girl scoops up the terrier and trots out of the room. I turn to Dax and blow a damn tendril of hair off my face. “I have to admit, this is not what I expected when you mentioned doggy style.”

  He grins and jabs a thumb over his shoulder toward the Pekingese mix I just finished blow-drying. “I’m positive that dog has never had so much style in her life,” he says. “I don’t know how you got that little pink bow to look that good.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice with specialty knots.”

  “Me, too,” he says, and eyes me in a way that has me thinking about that time my book club read 50 Shades. I’ll admit, I was scandalized.

  Now, I’m more…curious.

  “You doing okay?” Dax asks.

  I adjust my ponytail and try to look like a woman who wasn’t just thinking about bondage. “I’m good.” I sniff the sleeve of my sweater and wonder how long I’m going to smell like wet dog. I’m pretty sure it’s permeated my pores. “Thanks for rescuing me there.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says like a perfect gentleman. A tattoo-covered gentleman who’s been wrestling unruly canines all morning, including two big Rottweilers who weigh more than I do. Is it wrong that I find it kind of hot?

  “You’re doing a great job, by the way,” he tells me.

  He sounds surprised by that. He’s not the only one. I’ll admit I was taken aback when Dax explained that today’s addition to The Test involved bathing and grooming a batch of dogs rescued from a hoarding situation in Gresham.

  But the instant he placed a scared, matted Pomeranian in my arms and ordered me to make her pretty, I got it. I may not be a dog person, but spa days are my jam.

  “Those little pom-pom things on the poodle were a nice touch,” Dax says. “Stuff like that helps them get adopted.”

  “She really was a sweetheart,” I tell him. “Did you notice how she perked right up after her bath? It’s like she knew she looked beautiful.”

  “I noticed. And I’m amazed that Labrador let you paint her toenails.”

  I laugh and adjust my damp ponytail again. “She seemed mellow enough to try it. I could never pull it off with any of those terriers.”

  He smiles and looks me up and down, then shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you wore high heels and pearls to wash dogs.”

  “Well, you didn’t tell me we were washing dogs,” I point out. “You just told me I should dress to get dirty.”

  “And to you that says ‘put on seven-hundred-dollar jeans’ instead of ‘where’s my dominatrix costume?’”

  “They were a gift,” I fire back. His mention of a dominatrix costume has my cheeks flaming, so I choose to nitpick the rest of his comment instead. “How do you know how much Roberto Cavalli jeans cost, anyway?”

  The expression he gives me is stony, and I’m not sure what triggered it. “Let’s just say I have experience removing them,” he says after a long pause.

  I stare back at him, not sure if he’s trying to make me uncomfortable or if he’s compensating for his own discomfort.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but the jeans were a present from Gary four weeks after he ditched me at the altar and then had a change of heart,” I tell him. “He showed up with a dozen roses, a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, and the jeans he knew I’d always wanted.”

  “And you were all too happy to take them?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I chased him down the walkway and threw the roses at him,” I snap. “Then I put
on the damn jeans, called my sisters, and spent the evening drinking the champagne and toasting to my good fortune at not marrying the asshole.”

  Dax stares at me for a few beats. “You surprise me sometimes.”

  “I surprise myself sometimes.”

  He studies me a moment longer, then nods at the bank of dog kennels lining the wall. “For what it’s worth, you’ve done great here today. With the dogs, I mean. I figured you’d last ten minutes, tops.”

  “Well, you figured wrong.”

  “I did,” he says. “I may have misjudged you.”

  His words warm me as much as those icy-blue eyes, so I decide not to mention the fact that I did consider fleeing after ten minutes.

  “I like being helpful,” I admit, which is mostly why I stayed. “With the dogs, I mean. Everyone deserves a chance to look and feel their best, and if it helps them find homes, then I’ve done something right.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He turns and starts toward the bank of kennels. “Come on. Let’s keep scrubbing.”

  I step up beside him, remembering what Jell-O girl told me earlier. “Some of these littler ones are afraid of men,” I remind him. “I can grab her.”

  I unlatch the door of an upper kennel and greet a curly black terrier with fearful eyes. “Come on, sweetie,” I coax, edging my hand into the kennel. “We’re going to make you soft and pretty and clean smelling so you’ll find your new home.”

  The dog gives me a dubious tail wag and shoots a nervous glance at the hulking man beside me. Dax steps back, giving me space to work. “Don’t you worry about him,” I murmur to the dog. “He might look scary, but he’s really quite sweet.”

  Dax snorts behind me, making the dog jump and give a halfhearted snarl. “Now, now,” I soothe. “You don’t really mean that. You’re just playing tough because you’re scared. I know all about it.”

  I keep my voice low, the words spilling out of me secondary to the soothing tone that’s worked wonders on skittish canines all morning. Slowly, the dog’s ears perk up, and her skinny black tail gives a tentative wag.

  “There you go, babycakes. Is that your name? Babycakes?”

  “It’s a boy,” Dax points out. “How about Axel or Deathmetal?”