“No, no boyfriend,” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “This is for my older sister. And I swear, no matter how old we get, she always expects a damn present and a party. Complete with cake and hats.”
Why do I suddenly feel like my feet aren’t nailed to the ground? Like I just got ten pounds lighter?
“I see,” I muse, hoping I manage to bank my resurgence of enthusiasm. “And when is this sister’s birthday?”
He swallows, all humor vanishing from this face. “Today. I sort of…forgot until this morning. And I can’t show up to our family dinner without a gift. She might”—he licks his lips, his eyes widening comically—“she might actually kill me.”
The only thing that keeps me from busting a gut at his horrified expression is the fact that he sounds a tiny bit serious.
“I know a guy if you need to file a restraining order.”
“It wouldn’t stop her. She would be…highly motivated to make me pay. No scrap of paper would hold her back.”
I shake my head teasingly. “I don’t know. A brother forgetting his sister’s birthday? I might be on her side.”
“Hey, I’ve got an excuse,” he protests. “Everyone in my family knows I’ve got the worst memory in human history. My entire reputation is predicated on that. Everyone expects it of me. I might as well be a giant walking meme with how forgetful I am.”
“Is that so?” I decide to test him. “How many total home runs did Babe Ruth have?”
“Seven hundred and fourteen”
“How many times have the Boston Celtics beat the L.A. Lakers in the NBA finals?”
“Nine. Lakers have won three.”
“And how many rounds did Muhammad Ali’s and Joe Frazier’s fight go?”
“Fourteen.”
I raise an eyebrow, as if to say gotcha.
P.S., thanks Dad for all the random sports trivia I’ve always thought was useless.
He laughs and rubs his hand over his mouth, making the situation all the more hilarious when the numerous pieces of jewelry he’s sporting on his very manly arm start clanking together loudly.
“Okay, you win. I remember some things.”
Feeling bold, I wink. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your sister.”
He tilts his head to the side, his eyes clearing of some of the stress from before. It’s like he’s coming out of a hypnotism, reality seeming to intrude on his consciousness. His expression keeps changing as the wheels behind his eyes turn faster and faster, looking more alert with every second that passes.
Then his eyes lower to drag over me.
“Jesus Christ.”
Pretty sure he doesn’t mean for that to come out so loud.
And I’m positive he doesn’t mean to shout it.
At least, that’s how it sounds in my ears. It’s the exact reaction I’ve been standing here hoping to get from him. Maybe not to that extreme degree, but any kind of reaction is better than him looking straight through me like I’m invisible.
I smile sweetly, cocking my hip out. “Problem?”
The pose I’m striking deliberately makes my tight denim skirt ride up just a little higher, showing off more of my long, tan leg. In turn, my cropped white tank top lifts with the movement, displaying a larger sliver of my flat stomach. My long blond hair lays over my shoulders in natural beachy waves that my mother hates. My makeup is also natural with the touch of some shimmery bronzer and a tiny bit of sparkle around my mint green eyes.
Don’t get the wrong idea here.
I’m normally not this brave around guys.
In fact, I’m usually nothing but a giant scaredy-cat.
But something about the powerful, visceral reaction I’m having makes me want to return the favor. For some reason, I don’t want to be the only one affected here.
His mouth hangs open, his gaze heating by degrees as it travels over me from head to toe. Unabashedly. Like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. His eyes are so expressive in that moment, it’s as if they’re screaming how the fuck did I not see this?
He clears his throat, taking one last look at my legs before averting his gaze. “No, uh.” He clears his throat again. “I just didn’t realize—” He shakes his head and with renewed confidence, looks back at me and holds out his hand. “Sorry, I’m rude. And I’m West.”
Something about that non-practiced, genuinely flustered reaction endears me to him even more.
I take his hand, allowing his strong fingers to wrap around mine and squeeze. “Hi, Rude West. I’m Harper. And I’m pleased to meet you.”
His lips part when I squeeze his fingers back. My pulse jumps in my neck, forcing me to release his hand for fear that he can see the blatant arousal stamped all over my face.
Because I don’t need a mirror to know it’s there.
“Well, Pleased Harper,”—we both grin at the name—“are you going to rescue me from certain death, and help me pick out a necklace for my sister’s birthday?”
I purse my lips, like the request requires deliberation. Then I nod. “Since you asked so nicely. Does your sister have the same color eyes as you?”
His brow furrows at the random question.
I huff in mock outrage. “You don’t even remember the color of your own sister’s eyes?”
He narrows his own light brown ones, clearly restraining the urge to smile. “I was thinking, thank you very much. And yes, I’d say they’re basically the same color as mine.”
“All right, then.” I step toward him and drag the front necklace off his wrist—he’s only got about five dangling off each arm—and place it over his head. Stepping back, I tip my head to the side. “You should go with one that matches her eyes. Or at least, makes them pop.”
The dumbstruck expression he’s sporting, in combination with the very feminine necklace draped around his neck, would send me bursting into hysterical laughter in any other situation.
But then his eyes drop to my mouth as I smile, glazing over slightly.
And suddenly, nothing is funny. Only intense.
I glance down at the necklace before gathering my courage to lift my eyes and find his again. “Not that one,” I whisper.
He nods absently, though I’m not sure he even hears my words.
I remove the next piece from his arm to place it over his head, on top of the first. I repeat the process by comparing it to his eye color, acting like I’m concentrating and not using it as an excuse to ogle him. It’s not like I can help it, though.
No woman could withstand that urge.
This second necklace is longer, the pendant in the middle falling to rest just between his pecs.
Part of me thinks I should be rolling my eyes at the absurdity of the situation—helping a random guy pick out jewelry for his sister by making him model them. But the bigger, womanly parts of me are convinced there is nothing remotely absurd going on here. Maybe a little ridiculous in terms of how attracted to him I’m finding myself.
“That one might be a little too big,” I say softly.
He makes a choking sound that he tries to disguise. But when he shifts his hips around—clearly adjusting himself as discreetly as possible—I have a feeling I know what he’s thinking.
“Yeah, big,” he murmurs. “And a little uncomfortable.”
I bite my lip to hide my grin, then go for the third necklace. The chain is shorter than the first two, leaving little room around his neck. The charms in the center barely reach his collarbone.
I start wondering what slutty demon has suddenly possessed my body when my next words leave my mouth.
“How’s that one feel?” My gaze flicks down to the top of his thighs. He definitely looks to be filling out those shorts a little more than he was moments ago. “Too tight?”
His nostrils flare. “Definitely too tight. I think it might be a little too hard to get off.”
I blow out a heavy breath as that blunt innuendo reaches my ears.
I must have tripped and taken a swan dive down
a rabbit hole because this shit never happens to me.
Like, really, what is happening?
Because it looks like I want to get it on with a guy I just met two seconds ago in the market. And it feels like I want him to drag me off down the closest alleyway and do me dirty up against the brick wall.
Slut-sheeba.
That must be the bitch demon’s name that’s taking control of me. Leave me alone, you devil ho!
Just kidding. Do your worst and make him do his best.
Pretty sure she gives me a boobie shimmy in response.
“The clasp isn’t too bad,” I tell him, reaching my arms around his neck. “Here, let me show you.”
Oh, shit.
This was a fantastically stupid idea. He smells like orange citrus and I want to bite him.
Especially since I didn’t eat breakfast.
I hear his breath hitch when my fingers grasp the clasp at the nape of his neck. The movement has closed the proximity of our bodies, thickening the small space that’s left between us. I do my best to avoid grazing the growing bulge in his shorts because that might be too much. I think we’re both kind of suffering here. No sense in making it worse.
Oh, yes, there is.
Shut up, you demon slut.
His skin is so hot against the pads of my fingertips. I can’t help but wonder how sensational all that heat would feel on my skin, in the most sensitive of places. I can’t believe I’m even standing this close to him, let alone touching him.
But for perhaps the first time in my entire life, that annoying voice of reason in the back of my head—the one that likes to pump the brakes when all I want to do is go fast—isn’t making herself known. She should have spoken up in her awful, nasally voice that sounds suspiciously like my mother’s a long freaking time ago.
Oh, God.
Did the demon slut murder her?
R.I.P. Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes. Slut-sheeba snickers.
“You just have to use two fingers on the fastening and twist,” I whisper without meaning to whisper.
I hear his breaths coming faster now, while my heart starts pounding a staccato rhythm inside my heaving chest. Before I realize his intention, he angles his body toward mine and brushes his erection against my center. My fingers fumble their task as I feel my eyelids droop with desire.
Sweet baby Jesus.
He just rubbed his dick right over me.
And it feels so. Damn. Good.
“Two fingers you say?” he breathes, his gaze searing a hole right through me.
I think I nod, but not sure.
“And…twist?”
I gasp when he shifts his hips and drags his hardness across my mons, adding more pressure this time.
Nodding, I roll my lips inward, fighting the urge to moan because that would just be plain embarrassing. Although, this already is embarrassing. I really am a dog in heat, rubbing up on him like my demon slut has suddenly found herself a stripper pole.
“Is that how it goes?” he whispers.
I can feel his hot breath caressing my jaw, making my eyes nearly roll back in my head.
“Yes.”
I suspect that if he didn’t have all the cumbersome, gaudy necklaces weighing down his arms and jangling with every move he makes, his hands would already be molded to my waist and pulling me in tighter to him. Hell, we might as well be kissing at this point. My arms are wrapped around his neck, his head is bent toward mine, mere inches separate our mouths.
“You still Pleased Harper? Or do you need to be pleased, Harper?”
Lord, save me.
I swear to God, the demon slut starts twerking her ass at his words.
But something else snaps me out of the spell. Whether it’s the resurrection of the sensible, nasally voice, or just some much-needed common sense, I tamp down the overwhelming need rising inside me and finish unfastening the necklace’s clasp.
I ease away from his body and, in a business-like manner, replace the necklace on the booth’s table. The absence of all that masculine heat makes me feel empty. The distance between us feels wrong somehow.
Refusing to meet his eyes, I point at one of the necklaces on his opposite arm. “Go with that one. If she’s into the boho, beachy look, she’ll like it best.”
“You didn’t test it against my eyes.”
I’m taken aback at how reproachful his voice comes out. As if he disapproves of me breaking our connection. Almost admonishing me for regaining my sensibility.
“Trust me, you’ll be the hero brother if you get her that one.”
I almost wince at how husky my voice sounds. It’s like I have no control over it.
Where’s that monotone demeanor I learned from Mother? The cold-as-ice, infallible, regal exterior she taught me to pull over myself like a cloak when out in society?
You left it hanging up at home next to your raincoat, like you do almost every single day.
“Can’t argue with that,” West says, straightening his posture as he steps back.
I already regret throwing cold water over us, but it had to be done. I’m behaving completely inappropriately, getting swept up in physical attraction like this.
What if one of my mother’s nosy little lackeys happened to walk by and see us nearly dry-humping out in the open? She’d fucking crucify me, that’s what would happen.
I push my hair out of my face, a nervous habit I’ve had ever since middle school. “Well, glad I could be of help. It’s not every day I get to save someone’s life.”
His mouth tugs upward, conflict growing on his face. “Yeah, I definitely owe you one.”
I nod. Not wanting this to turn awkward, I start to turn and walk away. “I hope your sister has a good birthday.”
“Have dinner with me.”
I’m halfway turned, and for some reason, I stay like that. I hear the hopefulness in his voice, but I don’t want to see it on his face. Because then I won’t be able to turn him down.
But wait, why the hell would I turn him down?
Keeping my profile facing him, I say, “You said you had that family dinner tonight. For her birthday.”
“After that,” he grates out. “I could take you to dinner after. Or drinks. Or whatever the hell you want. Just—”
I turn when he cuts himself off because I can’t not.
His words have turned desperate, almost pleading.
And his expression is no different.
“Say yes,” he implores. “Let me take you out, Harper.” There’s an unsaid please there. His eyes might as well be begging.
I should probably go ahead and mention that I’m one of those maybe next time-ers. I’m the person who usually shies away from spontaneity. The one who, if something is too off-the-cuff or a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type of situation, still waits for the plane to come to a complete stop before unbuckling my seatbelt.
He drops all the necklaces from his arms onto the booth’s table, a loud clanging sound reverberating in the air around us. Unconcerned about the mangle of knots he just created in all those chains, he faces me full-on with the most intent expression I’ve ever seen on a person’s face.
“This can’t be the last time I ever see you,” he says, his voice raw, like he just ate a mouthful of gravel. “I think I need…more.”
I know exactly what he means.
I’ve literally only known this guy for barely ten minutes, but I can’t imagine never seeing him again. Never speaking to him, never hearing that rough timbre. Never smelling that orange citrus again.
Any minute now, I expect the Mad Hatter to jump out from behind a booth and cackle at me. Because I’ve definitely plummeted down a rabbit hole this morning.
“Okay.”
His eyes light up, a smile breaks free, and he nods. “Okay.”
We’re feverishly making out eight hours later.
By the next day, we’re officially dating.
Two weeks after that, we decide to move in together.
Days later,
we sign a six-month lease on a house we simply fall in love with.
Three days before we’re scheduled to move in, we have a blowup fight.
Hours after that, we’re breaking up.
And now…we’re living together.
Yep. For the next six months, I have to live with my ex-boyfriend who I’ve known for a whole whopping month and a half.
I blame it all on Slut-sheeba.
That bitch dragged me straight to hell.
Also by Melanie Munton:
Brooklyn Brothers:
Lace & Lies
Scars & Sins
Sultry Nights:
Salsa (Sultry Nights 1)
Tango (Sultry Nights 2)
Rumba (Sultry Nights 3)
Samba (Sultry Nights 4)
Mambo (Sultry Nights 5)
Standalone romance:
King of the Court
The Unforgettable Kind
Slow Seductions series:
Casual Affair (Slow Seductions #1)
Sweet Attraction (Slow Seductions #2)
Cruz Brothers series:
Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers #1)
The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2)
Always Mickie (Cruz Brothers #3)
Timid Souls novellas:
Stubborn Hearts
Unexpected Love
Possession and Politics Trilogy:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
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As always, to my husband Sean, I probably never would have started writing if it wasn’t for you. You’ve supported and encouraged me from day one, and made me believe that I could accomplish great things. YOU make my dreams possible. Thank you for that, and for every other beautiful thing you bring to my life.
The Divorce Attorney Page 20