The Only Rule: The Casual Rule 3

by AC Netzel

  “Honestly, I don’t know if he’d understand if I did. I see he’s staring at his plate then to his fork and spoon. So I asked him if he’s hungry. He smiles and nods. The aide was still helping some other residents get situated, so I grabbed the fork and fed him while he talked about his life thirty or so years ago like it were today.”

  He fed the man. He freaking fed the man!

  Despite the fact that I’m on the pill, I’m pretty sure he just sent my ovaries ovulating.

  It amazes me that after all this time we’re still learning new things about each other. Interesting things. If he’s trying to win me over, he could have stopped right after he said “Hi” in my apartment.

  “That’s so sweet,” I tell him.

  His kindness, his heart… it’s so achingly beautiful. My heart constricts as the feels have officially invaded my body.

  “I went into it thinking I could help change lives. The funny thing is—they changed mine. Sometimes I wonder if I’m getting more out of it than the people we’re trying to help,” he says casually.

  “What kind of research do they do?” I ask.

  He tells me more about the charity. Some things he’s already told me, but I could listen to his voice all night. He explains in great detail about different drug trials where the hope is it’ll slow down the progression of the disease. He describes research into the why’s this happens to the brain, correlations to other diseases. He speaks passionately about aiding the caretakers of patients, as his grandmother was one once until it was too much for one person to handle.

  He has those adorable wrinkles on the side of his eyes he gets when he’s excited about something. He’s so damn charming. If I had a glass slipper, I’d throw it at his feet.

  There’s no denying it. I’m totally smitten.

  My chest swells with pride as he speaks so eloquently about the charity’s accomplishments. He’s not bragging, although he has every right to. He’s humble and appreciative. His expressive eyes hold mine, charmed by his passion, his compassion, his generous soul. I’m captivated and awestruck and my heart is pounding hard in my chest as he pulls me in even more.

  I’m so absorbed in his words—in him—I look down at my plate and realize I’ve barely touched my dinner. That has to be a first.

  He already has me physically. But mentally and intellectually, he stimulates and challenges me. It’s his foreplay. And he’s good at it. Too good sometimes.

  He’s thoughtful, warm, passionate, confident. Yet he’s still gorgeous, scorching hot Mr. Khaki Shorts. His parents may suck, but God sure as hell blessed that gene pool and gave him all the good stuff.

  The flirty, dirty, unbelievably sexy Ben who gets my pulse racing and my body tingling is the man I fell in lust with. But this Ben… the man with the generous, caring, sensitive soul is the man I fell completely in love with.

  And I’m falling again.

  I try hard to continue listening to him, but at this point, all I hear is blah, blah, blah. His enthusiasm is too much of a turn-on to concentrate on his words anymore.

  “What are you grinning about?” he asks.

  “Wha…?” I answer, snapping myself out of my thoughts. “I didn’t realize I was grinning.” I really didn’t.

  “You were. Care to share what has you so happy?”

  Oh, I don’t know… Spending the rest of my life with you?

  My grin fades to a polite smile. “More Sangria?” I grab the handle to the glass pitcher and ignore his question.

  “Okay,” he says with a smirk. I’m sure he recognizes the sentimental loved-up glaze over my eyes but he maintains our first date façade and keeps the information to himself.

  We resume our date, enjoying each other’s company like always with small talk and a few laughs. I love getting to know him all over again.

  “Can I take your plates away?” Marcy asks as she snatches a platter.

  I exhale a frustrated breath. Shouldn’t you wait for an answer before you clear off the table? Ugh, this girl.

  “Have you had enough, Julia?” he asks, amused that Marcy is still taking plates off the table without an answer.

  I toy with telling him I’m still hungry, just to mess around with her and her armful of platters. The truth is I’m starving, but it’s not food that will sate me. Anyway, I still have a wedding dress to fit in.

  “Yes, thanks. I’m good.” I tilt my head and arch a brow, raising my glass to Ben.

  He smiles back, side-eying Marcy, as we both hold back a chuckle at her expense.

  “Would you like to see the dessert menu?” she asks.

  I know Ben’s dessert of choice is Emilio’s flan. Sometimes I wonder if he had to choose life without me or the flan, which one he’d pick. I consider ordering the cheesecake, just to torment him but I’m still reeling in the love from earlier and I cave.

  “We don’t need one. We’ll have an order of flan, please.”

  She stares at Ben like she’s waiting for his approval of my order.

  “She’s in charge,” he tells her. Smart man.

  “Okay.” She walks away, dumbfounded. She’s probably trying to figure out how the wallpaper can shout out food orders.

  “You do like flan, don’t you?” I ask.

  “Never tried it,” he lies.

  “You don’t have to have any. I can order you some jello if you prefer.”

  The day Ben chooses jello over flan is the day pigs fly.

  “I like living dangerously. I’ll try it.”

  “Aren’t you the brave one?”

  “I am.” He chuckles and takes the last sip of his sangria.

  Marcy returns with the flan in a white ramekin and a spoon, placing it directly in front of Ben. Naturally.

  “Anything else? Coffee? Tea?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

  So help me God, if she says “or me?” I’m going to chuck the flan at her head.

  “No, we’re good,” Ben answers, sliding the white ramekin across the table until it’s in front of me.

  After one last lovesick stare, she leaves.

  I scoop a spoonful of flan and taste it. “Mmm,” I groan. “Delicious.”

  “It looks it.”

  “It is.” I indulge in another spoonful. “Creamy and sweet. Sooo good,” I tease. I know he’s dying for a taste. Ben doesn’t have many weaknesses, but this stuff is his Achilles’ heel.

  I’m about to take my third spoonful when I stop the spoon mid-air. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want some?”

  “Sure, I’ll give it a try.” He’s so full of it. He’s salivating.

  “They only gave me one spoon. Do you mind if we share?”

  “Do you have any wicked germs I need to worry about?”

  I place my free hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. That’s exactly what I said to him the first time we shared this dessert.

  “You may grow breasts,” I deadpan.

  “Lucky for me I’m a breast man.”

  I chuckle and feed him the flan. As I watch him delight in his dessert, I’m having a flashback to the scene in When Harry Met Sally where they’re in the deli and Sally pretends she’s having an orgasm after taking a bite of her lunch. That’s Ben and his flan.

  I swear, one day he’s going to pull a Sally.

  “More?” I ask.

  He nods and I feed him another spoonful.

  “Quietly indulgent, isn’t it?”

  “Some of the best indulgences are the ones you didn’t see coming,” he murmurs, his voice low and sexy as fuck. Those are the words he said to me the first time he introduced me to flan. It had me squirming in my seat then and I’m still squirming.

  “Would you like to indulge in more flan?” I ask, scooping another spoonful.

  “I wasn’t talking about the flan,” he says, staring intensely at me.

  I feel naked. Not only because I know he’s undressing me with his eyes. But it’s also the way he speaks with delightfully dirty undertones, carefully chosen innuendo that ge
ts my heart pumping wildly.

  His words send a charge directly to my sex, leaving me a tingling mess. My stomach is doing flips. I gaze back at him, imagining his fingertips tickling my warm skin as they leisurely trail down my neck and around the curve of my shoulder warming me from the inside out. I can feel his touch right now— yet he hasn’t laid a finger on me.

  Too bad the empty pitcher of sangria is gone. I could have grabbed a handful of ice from the bottom and dropped it on my lap to cool down my nether regions.

  “I’m full. Would you like to finish this?” I slide the ramekin in front of Ben and hold out the spoon. I’d really like more, but if I don’t stop feeding this sexy man, I’m going to offer myself to him next. Since I haven’t forgotten my promise to myself, first date sex is off the table.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, reaching across the table for the spoon.

  “It’s all yours, Braden.”

  His eyes narrow as he takes the spoon from my hand, but he doesn’t correct me this time.

  After watching Ben devour the rest of his dessert, he asks Marcy for the check and quickly pays it.

  “Ready to go?”

  I nod. “Yes. Thank you for dinner.”

  “Thank you for joining me,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 4

  He grabs his cell phone out of the inside pocket of his blazer and sends a quick text to Jake to bring the car around.

  “Let me help you with that.” Walking around to my side of the table, he pulls out my chair. I stand while he takes my wrap off the back of the chair and slides it leisurely over my shoulders. His strong hands linger against my skin a little longer than necessary, his fingertips grazing the nape of my neck. I close my eyes and freeze at our brief contact. I know this is his way of touching me on the sly. I don’t call him out on it, because the truth is, I like it.

  “Thank you.” My insides melt, taking pleasure in this one fleeting moment we’re… us.

  “Shall we?” he asks, dropping one hand until it’s resting on the small of my back.

  I nod and he escorts me to the front of the restaurant, never taking his hand off my back.

  He leans in slightly, close to my ear. “Do you feel it?” he whispers.

  Goosebumps prickle up my arm in response.

  “Yes,” I breathe, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

  Electricity. Sparks. Magic. I feel all of it.

  He snakes his arm around my waist and gives me a gentle squeeze.

  “Good night, Mr. Martin,” Kimberly calls out, once again, completely ignoring my existence.

  And just like that, our spell is broken.

  I glare at her in disbelief. I really am invisible here. My eyes narrow as I look at Ben, who’s wearing an all-out dimple producing ear to ear grin.

  Normally, we’d burst out laughing at Kimberly’s exchange— or in my case, lack of—but tonight we ignore the absurdity of the moment and continue with our act.

  “Good night, Kimberly,” he says with a chuckle.

  We wait a few minutes, our shoulders occasionally brushing against each other when a customer squeezes around us. Kimberly still has her radar focused on Ben. Her tongue is practically hanging out of her mouth. Keep dreaming, honey.

  I inhale deeply and breathe in his Benessence. I have to admit… I miss him. I miss holding his hand. I miss our stolen kisses and the way he tucks my hair behind my ear when it’s in my face.

  But this is our first official date and so far it’s been perfect. I used to believe that Ben was God’s gift to women. But I was wrong. He’s God’s gift to me.

  “Earth to Julia?”

  I blink a few times, snapping out of my thoughts. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Our ride is here.” He pulls open the door.

  “Oh, okay. Let’s not keep our driver waiting.”

  The limo is parked with the motor idling in front of the restaurant. Jake’s leaning on the side of the car with the passenger side door open.

  “I do hope your dinner was scrummy, ma’am,” he says, extending his arm out to the opened door. I roll my eyes. He’s really into his part, although his accent changed from Colin Firth to Eliza Doolittle.

  “It was excellent. Thank you.”

  “Would you like to join me for dessert? Perhaps some spotted dick?” he asks, wiggling his brows.

  What an ass. No doubt Jake researched double entendre desserts and thought he hit the jackpot with this doozy. The guy is lucky I know that’s the name of a real dessert or I’d clock him upside the head.

  Ben stops in his tracks, overhearing that last question. Crap. His eyes are starting to bug out and his jaw tenses. He looks pissed. He opens his mouth to say something when I shoot him an “I got this” look. A spark of recognition flashes across his face.

  Ben met Jake once at the Sunshine deli when he saved me from wiggling my way out of a lie to get out of Jake’s dinner invite. In an odd way, we should thank Jake. He’s the reason we ended up having dinner together at Emilio’s and the rest was history.

  I can tell Ben remembers Jake’s deal by the fact that he hasn’t said anything. Ben knows I’ve labeled him a persistent pain-in-the-ass and hopelessly inappropriate to the nth degree but harmless.

  “That would be a ‘no,’” I tell him as I slide into the car.

  He shrugs, then turns his attention to Ben, who is standing by his door, watching our exchange from the opposite side of the car. “Back to the flat, Sir?” he asks.

  Still clueless.

  “Yes,” Ben says before sliding in the car next to me.

  “Very well.”

  We drive around the block and take Seventh Avenue downtown. The car is eerily silent. Usually, I’d rest my head against Ben’s shoulder and snuggle close to him as a taxi took us back to my place.

  But I made certain promises, albeit foolish ones, before our “date” and I intend to keep them. So I stay on my side of the car and he stays on his.

  Twisting my head to look out the window, I watch the buildings as we zoom by. Must. Not. Look. At. Hot. Man. Seated. Next. To. Me.

  It doesn’t last long.

  I turn my head back to look at Ben. He’s far away, deep in thought, staring down at my engagement ring that sparkles when beams of light from streetlights shine on it. He looks up at me, the corner of his mouth lifting up and gives me a half-smile. I glance down at my ring, then up at him again and half-smile back.

  We turn down Bleecker Street, a few blocks from my apartment when Ben leans forward toward Jake.

  “Can you stop here?” he asks, then turns back to me. “It’s a nice night. Would it be okay if I walked you the rest of the way home?”

  I nod, biting down on my bottom lip. I want to throw myself on his lap and hold him. I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s prolonging our night. He doesn’t want it to end any more than I do.

  “Of course, mate.” The car pulls to the side of the road. Ben peels a few bills out of his wallet, tips Jake, and exits the car. He walks around and opens my door, offering me a hand out of the limo.

  “Cheerio,” Jake yells out the driver’s side window the second the car door slams closed and he speeds away.

  Honest to God, I think he’s insane.

  “Are you warm enough?” Ben asks, covering my shoulders with my wrap.

  “I’m good,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself, a poor substitute for what I really want… his.

  We walk at a leisurely pace down Bleecker Street, passing a few bars and restaurants along the way. It’s a perfect early Spring night. The air is crisp with a slight chill when a breeze blows. Normally I’d bitch and moan that I was freezing because my point of freezing is at eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit but I have the after-effects of sangria and the company of this sexy man warming me up from the inside.

  “Thank you for joining me for dinner,” he says.

  “I’m the one who should thank you. You paid.”

  “You agreed to come. We’ll call it even.”


  “Okay. Even.”

  “I had a good time tonight,” he says.

  I smile. “Me too.”

  “Maybe we could do this another time?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “We both have different rules for relationships.”

  “Some rules are made to be broken,” he says seductively, playfully zigzagging his index finger down the side of my arm.

  “Who’s the rule breaker here?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

  “Come on… don’t you want to live a little?” he teases.

  I shake my head. “I can’t. I can only love a lot.”

  “It might have been good.”

  “Maybe.” I lift a brow. “Or maybe you’re not as good as you think.”

  He pretends he stabs himself in the chest. “Me? Nah.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re such an ass.”

  “Does that mean you don’t like me?”

  I lean my head back and focus on his butt. “No. Your ass is quite nice, actually,” I tell him.

  “Julia Conti, did you just check me out?”

  I shrug a shoulder. “Couldn’t let Kimberly have all the fun.”

  “I didn’t realize you had such loose morals.” He places his hand over his heart in mock disgust.

  “You wish my morals were loose,” I scoff.

  He tilts his head back slightly and chuckles. “When it comes to you, there are a lot of things I wish for.”

  Usually, I’d want him to list all those things then I’d help him tick off the list. But tonight hearing the list that I’m sure is dripping in perfect filth and dirty sex would be too tempting. I ignore his answer, biting the inside of my cheek to ward off my grin.

  There are about half a dozen people gathered right past John’s Pizza. David, a street musician who frequents this neighborhood, is sitting on a blue plastic milk crate in front of the neighboring building. His guitar case is opened on the sidewalk in front of him. His long dark dreadlocks and warm smile greet us when we reach him, as he continues to strum his guitar, never losing a beat. We’ve listened to him play dozens of times, here and in Washington Square Park, his usual haunt.

  He has a wonderfully eclectic playlist, from Bob Marley to The Stones and pretty much everything in between. His mood, or need for tips, dictates his song choices. I don’t care what he plays. The man could sing the phone book and I’d listen.