“What.”
“I came for a visit, like you said in my yearbook.”
She cocked her head. “Huh?”
“In my yearbook. You wrote that you wanted to visit me at school. You said, ‘I think we could have a good time.’ I agree. Let’s do it.” Dropping my chin, I gave her my most winning smile.
Irresistible, right?
She shrank back, wrinkling her nose. “What the hell is that? Your Flynn Ryder smolder?”
“Who’s Flynn Ryder?”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s from Tangled, the Rapunzel movie?”
“Sorry. I missed it. So does he get in her pants?”
“Not before she hits him over the head with a frying pan.”
“Ouch.” I leaned right and left, checking her hands. “Since I don’t see any cookware in your grasp, is it safe to come in?”
She eyeballed me and crossed her arms. “Why do you want to come in?”
“I don’t know, actually.” I mirrored her posture, crossing my arms. “It’s not like the welcome has been all that warm.”
Her arms fell, and her scowl abated slightly. But just slightly. “Sorry. I’m just…sort of a private person. And it’s been a long day.”
“No problem.” Flashing my palms at her, I turned for the steps. “Just thought I’d try again to be friendly. It really is good to see you. Sorry to bother you.” I hotfooted it down the stairs, figuring I’d play a little harder to get from here on out. Maybe she liked a challenge too.
“Quinn, wait.”
Bingo.
Halfway down, I looked up to see her hovering on the landing, hugging her stomach, her juicy bottom lip caught between her teeth. Was it wrong that I noticed her nipples were hard and poked through her thin cotton shirt? Don’t stare at her tits, asshole. You want her to invite you in, you have to at least appear gentlemanly.
“Don’t go,” she said. “I guess we could…hang out a little.”
I waited for her to go on, to invite me in, but she just stood there.
“OK. Should we hang out on the steps? Or would you like to come down? Boxes are everywhere, but—”
“No, no.” She sighed, and her eyes closed briefly. “You can come up.”
Grinning victoriously, I went back up the stairs and followed her in, shutting the door behind me. The upper flat appeared to be laid out just like the lower, with the living room at the front, dining room and kitchen in the middle, and two bedrooms and bathrooms at the back. It had the same neutral carpeting and paint colors, although her furniture was nicer, and she’d added feminine things like pillows and flowers and candles. It smelled nice too, sort of sweet and flowery. Or was that her?
“I was just about to open some wine. Do you want some?” She put her hair in a ponytail as she shuffled into the kitchen. It was dark and wavy and fell past her shoulders, long enough to wrap around my fist if I—
Oh, shit. She just asked me a question, didn’t she?
“Sure.” I leaned against the doorframe and watched her wrestle with the corkscrew and bottle, admiring her from behind. Her sloppy clothing hid her curves, but her shirt rode up and her pants slipped down just enough for me to see a ribbon of pale skin between them. My dick, which had already noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her shirt, showed even more interest in finding out if she had underwear on. Clearly it remembered the lost opportunity from years ago and wanted to punish me.
“Like red?” She had to rise up on tiptoe to reach the wine glasses, and I adjusted myself while she wasn’t looking.
“Of course. Antioxidants, resveratrol…what’s not to like?”
“Oh, you’re one of those.” Shaking her head, she poured the wine. “Figures.”
“One of those what?”
“One of those people who drink one glass of red wine a night because it’s healthy, not because it tastes good and makes you feel like you can get through another day without hitting someone with a frying pan.” She gave me a pointed look over her shoulder.
I laughed. “Can’t a person do both? Enjoy something because it tastes good and it’s good for them?”
“I guess. But there are very few things that fit that description, at least for me. Everything I like is bad. Here.” Handing me a glass, she brought hers to her lips. “Ahh,” she said after a good long drink. “That’s better.”
“What do you like that’s bad for you?”
“Bacon. Butter. Chocolate. Wine. Ice cream. Bread. Chips. Cocktails. Things that are battered and fried.” She took another drink. “Should I go on?”
“That’s your diet?” I set my wine glass on the counter and opened her fridge. “My God, how do you live?” I asked her, shaking my head. “Ketchup, mustard, jelly, eggs, butter, and pickles…what is that, olives?”
“Yeah, but those are for my martinis.”
“At least you have milk.”
“It’s probably expired. But I do like cereal for dinner sometimes. And sometimes I put it in my coffee, if I don’t have cream.”
“Jesus. No meat, no vegetables…” I opened the crisper. “One lonely apple.”
“I’ve been busy,” she said, her tone defensive. “And no one asked you to look in my fridge, anyway. Get out of there.” She kicked the crisper shut, closed the fridge and leaned back against it, an adorably defiant look on her face.
I shook my head. “No wonder your growth is stunted. You know, I was lying about the tree thing, but I do think if you ate healthier, you’d feel better. Maybe even grow a little.”
“This is why I didn’t want to let you in.”
“OK, OK. Suit yourself.” I should have stopped there, but something in me loved the way I could still rile her up. “But I’d be happy to share some of my tips for healthy eating and living with you if you’d like. Do you exercise?” I took her face in my hands, tilted it this way and that. Her complexion was beautiful, her skin like porcelain. “And look how pale you are—are you inside all day?”
“It’s January in Michigan!” she said, leaning away from me. “Of course I’m pale!”
“Well, a brisk walk outside won’t kill you. Vitamin D is important.” I grabbed my wine off the counter and took a sip to cover the grin on my face.
She glared at me. “This conversation is over. And if you don’t stop making fun of me, this visit is over too.”
“I didn’t mean any offense by that, Jaime. You look perfect. You’re beautiful.”
“That’s not what you said a minute ago.”
“What I said wasn’t based on how you look—it was based on what you eat. Mostly.”
She cocked her head. “Why do you care what I eat, anyway? You haven’t spoken to me in ten years.”
“I know. But you’re like a little sister to me, and I—”
She groaned and flashed one palm at me. “Please. Not that again.”
“Sorry.” I had to smile at the blush painting her face. “How about friends? Can we be friends?”
“I don’t know.” She eyed me with skepticism, swirling her wine.
“Oh, you're one of those,” I teased.
“One of those what?”
“One of those people who believe men and women can’t be friends.” Leaning back against the counter opposite the fridge, I took another drink. “At least, not if they’re attracted to one another.”
“I never said I was attracted to you!” she blustered. “I’m sure you’ve had women all over the world fall at your feet, but I’m not one of them. At least—” She fidgeted, then stood a little taller. Well, taller for her. “Not now. Not anymore.”
“Of course not.”
“Are you laughing at me?” she asked indignantly.
“I would never. I’m just happy to see you again. I want to get to know you.” (I was totally laughing at her.)
“And I never said men and women couldn’t be friends, either.” She jerked her chin at me.
Fuck, that dimple. I wanted to kiss it. Actually, I wanted to rub it with the tip of
my cock, but I tried not to think about that too hard. What was she saying now?
“I have lots of male friends,” she insisted.
“Oh. My mistake.” While I calmly took another sip of wine (this took some effort, since I couldn’t stop thinking about my dick on her chin), she gulped hers, clearly flustered. “So tell me about grown-up Jaime. What does she do?”
“I’m a social media specialist at a marketing firm.”
“Do you like it?”
“For the most part. Sometimes I wish I got to do more of the creative stuff, more of the research and whole campaign strategy, but I’ve only been at this a couple years. I get that I have to work my way up.”
“What do you do for fun? Hang out with all your male friends?”
She rolled her eyes. “My closest friends are actually women. Do you remember Claire French and Margot Lewiston from school?”
I nodded. “Yes. You three together were nothing but trouble back then.”
“Ha. We’re less trouble now, but still together.”
“That’s awesome, to have friends like that, to be so close for so many years.”
She tilted her head. “Didn’t you have good friends in L.A.?”
I shrugged. “I had a few. But I traveled a lot.”
“What about a girlfriend?”
“One or two. Nothing serious.”
She sighed dramatically. “I suppose it’s hard to have a serious girlfriend what with young women throwing themselves at you all the time.”
I nodded. “And older women too. Don’t forget them.”
“Come on, older women like your bathroom mirror selfies? What’s with that, anyway? You’re so vain you have to capture yourself in a towel capturing yourself in a towel?”
I cocked a brow. “Now who’s making fun? And does this mean you follow me on Instagram?”
She lifted her shoulders, like she couldn’t remember if she did or not, but her cheeks looked like two splotches of wine on a white linen tablecloth. “I follow a lot of people.”
“Right.” God, she was fucking delightful. So different from most women I met—so determined to put me in my place. “And what about you? Boyfriend?”
She snorted, lifting her glass. “No. I don’t do relationships.”
“And why’s that?”
“I work a ton, I don’t like anything to interfere with my girl time or my alone time, and I’m not a good girlfriend. Every guy I date more than a few times wants more than I can give.”
“More what? More time? More emotion? More sex?”
“Let’s go with time and emotion,” she said, looking me in the eye. “I’m all for no-strings sex. But like I told you earlier, I don’t believe in love.”
“Oh, that’s right. You did tell me that. And is this something you announce on the first date?”
“No, smartass, it isn’t. But I don’t think it hurts anyone to be honest up front about where dating me can and cannot go. So I lay it all out there.”
I nodded, setting my wine glass aside. “OK, then. Lay it on me.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I want to take you on a date.”
She made a face. “I’m not going on a date with you.”
“Why not? My mom said I’m a good catch.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“I don’t want a boyfriend.”
“I said one date.”
Her head tilted and she gave me a sassy look. “Maybe I’m not attracted to you.”
Liar. There’s something here and you know it. I gave her a slow smile. “Maybe.”
“So I’m sure you’re not used to hearing this, but you keep your hands to yourself. Got it?”
It was a bluff, and I couldn’t resist calling it.
I moved slowly, closing the space between us in three steps and caging her against the fridge with a hand on either side of her face. My upper body barely brushed against hers. I stared her down hard, felt the quick rise and fall of her chest. “Got it, sweet pea.”
She hesitated, but then lifted her chin slightly, daring me to kiss her. We stood like that a few more seconds, each of us waiting for the other to back down or give in.
A game of chicken—just like the old days.
But despite her tempting mouth, I quickly strategized that kissing her now would be a mistake. The little minx had just told me she wasn’t attracted to me—I couldn’t give her what she wanted yet. I hadn’t missed what she said about no-strings sex (and believe me, my dick had taken that as an invitation and went looking for his party hat), but I didn’t want that from her.
I backed off. “Well, thanks for the drink. This was nice.”
She blinked, her icy facade in a puddle at her feet. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, I should get back downstairs and finish unpacking.”
“Oh. OK.” She cleared her throat. “Yeah, that’s good. I actually have some work to do tonight.”
I walked out of the kitchen, glad she was behind me and couldn’t see the grin on my face. In the living room, she shouldered past me and pulled open the door. Then she stood behind it like it was some sort of shield, making it impossible to even hug her.
“Thanks for the wine. Don’t drink too much, now.” I gave her ponytail a tug before heading out the door, like I used to when she was just Alex’s little sister, gratified at the annoyed expression it put on her face.
“You’re welcome,” she snapped, letting me know I was anything but.
The sound of her door slamming behind me made me smile even bigger.
She was something else. Feisty as she was back then and ten times hotter.
I bet she’s a firecracker in bed. I bet she likes to be on top and call the shots, which I’d happily allow her to do, but that also means it would be an even bigger challenge—and maybe even more fun—to subdue her.
For a moment my mind wandered to a place where I had her restrained, blindfolded, and on her knees.
Jesus.
I had to stop halfway down the stairs and adjust my pants again.
Back in my apartment, I finished unpacking and tried to study, but it was useless—I couldn’t stop thinking about her. And not just sexual stuff, either.
OK yeah, mostly sexual stuff.
But I didn’t want to just fuck her. She wasn’t some random girl at a bar in Prague I’d never see again (although we had fun that night, didn’t we, Veronika?). She was someone from my past I felt a connection with. Someone I wanted to know better now. Someone who mattered to me.
Eventually my stomach started growling, so I went to the store for a few groceries, and when I got home, I noticed her living room lights were still on. I thought about knocking on her door, inviting her down for chicken Caesar salad. (“You have heard of salad before, right? It’s, like, lettuce and a few other delicious, healthy things in a bowl?”)
But I didn’t do it, because I knew she’d have turned me down. I was pretty good at reading people, and I had the feeling Jaime was a woman who liked things on her own terms, and if you weren’t willing to meet her terms, you could fuck right off—especially if your name was Quinn Rusek.
It made me smile.
I mean, she’d clearly wanted me to kiss her in the kitchen, if only to prove that I was the kind of guy who couldn’t keep my hands to myself.
But the more I thought about it, the more I was glad I’d backed away. I could play the long game with her, especially if the game was chicken.
When I kissed her—and I was going to kiss her—it was going to be on my terms.
I wanted her to come to me and admit she felt that spark. I wanted her to give me another chance. I wanted to do things differently with her.
But first, I wanted to make her sweat a little.
Then I wanted to make her sweat a lot.
Five
JAIME
I was fuming.
The nerve.
The fucking nerve of the guy.
<
br /> He’d wanted to kiss me, I knew he had—so why didn’t he do it? Or had I misread him again? God, why was Quinn Rusek so hard for me to figure out? For crying out loud, I had degrees in psychology and marketing! I made a living out of studying people and strategizing how to make them behave a certain way. I was good at it. How did he have me so off my game?
Now I was even more embarrassed than I’d been in the first place. Jesus, this was twice now he’d turned me down. Twice!
I flopped facedown on my couch.
I’d been so proud of myself for playing it nice and cool, then I ruined everything by trying to get him to kiss me!
Ugh, he was probably downstairs laughing his ass off, and up here I was all hot and bothered by how close he’d been to me. Even closer than the night of the doomed seduction, his entire body grazing against mine.
Holy smoke, his body.
I was dying to know if it would look as good naked as it appeared in photos. Did it really have all those ridges and lines? Was his skin really that smooth and perfect? He’d been so close I could smell his soap.
Or maybe that was his hair product. Yeah, he looked like the kind of guy to have hair products—pomades and waxes and gels and pastes—I bet he spent more time in front of the mirror than I did.
Whatever it was, he’d smelled good enough to eat. I’d wanted to take a big old bite out of him. And I would have too—that’s what made me even madder. If he’d have kissed me, I’d have dropped that wine glass and jumped up on him like bacon grease hopping off the pan. We’d probably be fucking each other’s brains out on the kitchen floor by now, which sounded like a pretty good time.
So why hadn’t he done it? Was it his mission in life to torture me? Make me hot for him only to reject me again? OK fine, so ten years ago he’d been worried about crossing the line because of Alex or my parents or whoever, but what was his problem tonight?
He doesn’t have a problem. You do.
I howled into the cushion, kicking my feet and pounding my fists like a toddler throwing a tantrum. I didn’t care what Alex said—Quinn Rusek was a sadist. And this was the last time—the last time—I was going to let him make a fool out of me. No way would I agree to a date with him.
Man Candy Page 3