Rogue Devil

by Kylie Gilmore

  He grins. “Now you know.”

  8

  Brendan

  I’m waiting in line at the grocery store with the tortellini ingredients on Saturday, and I find myself smiling about seeing Chloe later this afternoon. Ridiculous. The only reason I’m looking forward to it is so I can stop wondering what she’s doing next door. Yesterday I heard her orgasmic cry when I got out of the shower, so, okay, I got jealous. I went next door to see who the hell she was with. Turns out she was alone. At first I felt awkward, relieved but awkward. Hey, I didn’t want to hear what I heard. She was so bright pink with embarrassment I couldn’t help teasing her. Her excuses were hysterical and frigging adorable. Which is how I decided it wouldn’t hurt to spend some time together as friends.

  I shift forward in line, my mind conjuring her again—soft blond hair, sharp green eyes, petite curvy body, always in a tank top and jeans. Sometimes she throws a cardigan over the tank, sometimes not. I spend way too much time dwelling on the delicate lines of her collarbones. The bow in her top lip, the fuller lower lip.

  I text her, letting her know I’m on my way home with the tortellini stuff. Almost sounds like we share a home. Shit. I suddenly wish I could take it back. It sounds too domestic.

  Chloe: I accidentally got your mail in my box. Stopped by your place this morning, but you weren’t home. I slid it under your door. Early workout?

  Me: Ha. No. I haven’t made it home yet from last night.

  Chloe: Sounds like a wild night.

  I think up a noncommittal response. This isn’t my first female text rodeo. She’s curious what I was up to last night; otherwise, she would’ve just said cool or sent one of those girly emojis. Maybe she wonders if I hooked up with someone. Would it bother her if I did? Fact is, I never spend the night after a hookup anymore. It’s just not worth giving a woman false hope that I’m looking for something more. I went to a party last night and then crashed on the couch at a friend’s place, who’s lucky enough to sublet a rent-stabilized apartment in the city. But Chloe doesn’t need to know that.

  Me: Not as wild as yours, I’m sure, party girl.

  No reply.

  I scowl at my phone, irritated beyond reason that she didn’t reply. I need to stop getting so worked up over her. Chloe’s path, while noble, could never gel with mine. She could end up way out in California for all I know with med school and whatever comes after. I’m anchored here with my family’s construction business. Yet another reason it’s not worth getting tangled up.

  And then I see three dots on my phone screen. My pulse kicks up in anticipation.

  Chloe: I’m weirdly looking forward to cooking.

  I smile and text back. Me too.

  I’m not crossing the line. But I might walk right up to it.

  Chloe

  “Have you ever cracked an egg before?” I ask with a laugh. Brendan is worse in the kitchen than I am.

  “Hey, no judgment,” he says, picking half the shell out of the center of his flour bowl. We’re making homemade dough for the tortellini, which means we have to make a bowl out of the flour and put eggs in the center before we mix. Mine’s perfect. It’s like a chemistry experiment—the right proportions in the right order give predictable results. I’m waiting for him to finish his egg bowl before we go on to the next step. We’re following along with a cooking video on his laptop.

  His flour bowl collapses on one side as his big fingers attempt to get the shell out. I push the flour back in place quickly and bump him with my hip. “Move over. Let the expert do the work. It takes the precision of a skilled chemist.”

  He does a quick backstep and appears at my other side. “What’re ya talking about? Mine looks perfect.” He points to the flour bowl I created, claiming it as his own.

  I shake my head, smiling, and carefully pick the big shell out and then pile the slivers of shell remaining inside it. “Do you have two rolling pins?”

  “Err…” He twists his lips to the side. “Kinda forgot the rolling pin thing.”

  “I’ll go back to my place and see if your neighbors left one.”

  I wash my hands, dry them, and head next door, a bounce in my step. My dreary day took a turn into sunny town the moment I joined Brendan. It’s so cozy cooking in his kitchen, rock music playing in the background. He’s so fun and funny. I try not to think about the fact that he didn’t come home last night. He was a little cagey about it, which I’m sure means he spent the night with a woman. I have to be fine with that. Clearly, he’s content to get his physical needs met elsewhere. I’m just his neighbor friend.

  Back at my place, I rummage around in the cabinets and find a wooden rolling pin. Just one. I guess most people don’t own two. That’s okay.

  Once I’m back at Brendan’s place, I hold it up over my head. “Ta-dah!”

  He grins and cups his hands over his mouth. “Victory!”

  I laugh and bring it over. “We could take turns with it.”

  “I looked up substitutes. We can use a glass bottle too.” He holds up an empty vodka bottle. “I’ll roll with this; you roll with the rolling pin.”

  I study him. Did he get drunk in the few minutes I was gone? There’s definitely an alcohol smell in the air. “You didn’t just finish that vodka, did you?”

  He staggers around comically, slurring his words, “What maketh ya thay dat?” He bumps into me, sending me flying back into the counter, his arm cushioning my back at the last moment. My breath catches, heat flooding my body at the sudden closeness of the man I’m desperately trying not to lust for. Up close, his eyes are clear. Not drunk.

  “Sorry,” he says, easing back from me. “I forgot how light you are.”

  I smooth my hair, flustered. “I’m glad you’re sober because it’s harder to work with a drunk person. I’ve seen plenty of staggering drunks in college.”

  “I bet.” His voice is rough.

  I stare at his broad chest in a black T-shirt, which is at my eye level. He’s got a million pounds of muscle on me. The man is fit from his wide shoulders to his defined abs to his steel ass. I couldn’t help checking out his ass in his faded jeans as he moved around the kitchen earlier. I wish I weren’t so drawn to him.

  I blink and shove him out of my way. He lets me. “So what did you do with the vodka?”

  He stares at me blankly for a moment before turning to the refrigerator and producing an insulated water bottle. “Vodka’s new home.”

  I focus on the bottle instead of the tanned muscular arm holding it. “You should label that. What if you take a swig after a workout? Or Garrett comes back and thinks it’s water?” He told me his younger brother is his roommate when he’s not house-sitting.

  “Ha! That would be hilarious. Takes a lot to bring him down.”

  I shake my head. “You’re terrible.”

  “Terribly hilarious.”

  I give his shoulder a nudge. “Label it.”

  He lifts his palms. “With what?”

  “I’ll take care of it. I got stuff at my place.” I head toward the door, relieved to put some space between us.

  “If you keep strutting back to your place, we’re never gonna get this pasta into shape.”

  I nearly stumble. I slowly turn back to him. “Sorry, strutting?”

  “Yeah, the Chloe walk.” He executes a bouncy step, throwing in a few hip swivels as he goes.

  I crack up, even though he’s making fun. “Stop. I don’t look that bad.”

  He waggles his brows. “You look that good.” He swivels his finger in the air. “Go ahead and turn around, commence strutting.”

  “Don’t watch.” I turn back toward the door and work on walking as normally as possible, no bounce, no sway.

  “Now you look like you have a stick up your ass.”

  I throw my hands in the air and hear his low laugh. He’s big on teasing.

  I laugh a little to myself as I gather up the stuff from my apartment—Post-it, pen, tape. When I return to his place, his back’s to m
e and he’s dancing, one hand on the back of his neck, the other arm going back and forth as he slowly turns. He’s doing the Sprinkler.

  I stop and slap a hand over my mouth to hold in the sound of my laughter. I watch, thrilled I’ve got something to tease him about now. He keeps dancing, slowly turning, until he catches my eye. He immediately drops his arm and runs a hand through his hair in a casual gesture. “Oh, hey. You’re back.”

  “What were you doing?” I ask, fighting a laugh.

  “I’ll tell you what I wasn’t doing. I wasn’t dancing.”

  I giggle as I approach. His expression is pure innocence. He’s outrageous.

  “Oh, no? What do ya call it?”

  “Interpretive dance,” he says with a straight face. “Not officially recognized by dance culture.”

  I gape at him. My own words from last night after he caught me post-vibrator action, all flushed with endorphins. Here I thought I caught him in an embarrassing act, but he was just teasing me from before. My cheeks flame.

  He winks.

  I palm his face and shove. He grabs my wrist and shifts away, laughing.

  In a futile effort to hold the mortification at bay, I keep my focus on my label work, carefully printing “vodka” in all capital letters on the Post-it. Then I tape it to the water bottle. I help myself to a chilled bottled water, too, in hopes of cooling down the seemingly never-ending inferno of embarrassment I keep finding myself in around him.

  He lets out an exaggerated sigh, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Can we please get back to work? I’d like to eat before nine o’clock.”

  “What a taskmaster. Work, work, work.” I set my water on the counter and join him back at our flour bowls. “All right, hit play on Massimo. Let’s make some dough.” That’s the chef we’re following in the video.

  “That sounds like we’re gonna get rich.”

  “Tortellini rich. Let’s go, pokey.”

  Brendan hits play and the dulcet rhythm of Massimo’s Italian accent instructing us in English returns. But all I can focus on is the woodsy masculine scent from the man at my side, the heat radiating off him, his corded muscular forearms as his hands rest on the counter, awaiting instruction.

  I desperately want those hands on me. Why can’t I just relax and enjoy our friendship? I learned my lesson with Michael. Once you cross the line, that friendship is gone. Not that Brendan has shown any interest. He jokes around with me like he does with his brothers. I’m sure with a woman he’s interested in, he’s all smooth moves and charm. Like with whoever he was with last night. Now if that doesn’t cool my lust, nothing will.

  It’s for the best. I need to stay focused on my work. Friends can pick up again whenever, but a relationship, that’s different. I’ve avoided them because I know it takes work to make time to see each other, to be there for each other, and the long distance with me off at medical school soon would be tough. I have no control over which med school I get into. Harvard is my dream, but I have to cast a wide net with my applications. I’ll look for someone to get serious with after my medical training. Now is for fun.

  “Paging Dr. Travers,” Brendan says.

  I startle and realize he paused the video. It must be time for us to do the next step and I missed it. “Yes?”

  “We have to whisk the eggs, but I don’t have a whisk.”

  “I know what to do.”

  “Are you about to strut back to your place for a whisk?”

  I elbow him in the ribs, and he makes an exaggerated oof sound, wincing and bending over. “Damn, Chloe, have you been lifting weights with pencils again?” He grabs my pen from the counter and does an arm curl like it’s a dumbbell, patting the bulge of his bicep with his other hand. I don’t know whether to laugh or reach out to feel the hard curve of muscle. He grins at me, his blue eyes sparkling devilishly.

  I pull two forks from a drawer and hand him one. “Get whisking.”

  We stand side by side, whisking the eggs in the center of our flour bowls.

  “What’s next again?” I ask since I was distracted during the video.

  “We have to gradually push the flour into the center to mix it.”

  “Got it.”

  “You totally spaced when Massimo told us all this. What were you thinking about?”

  Sex. “Neurogenetics.”

  “Ah. Me too.”

  I laugh.

  He nudges my shoulder with his. “What? You think you cornered the market on neurogenetics daydreaming? Nuh-uh. It’s all I can think about.”

  I shake my head, smiling. “I’m sure.”

  We finish up whisking and cave in the bowls, making a mess of the dough.

  “Are you sure this is going to turn into pasta?” I ask. “It looks awful.”

  “Give it time. Massimo says he helped make this when he was a kid. I’m sure two adults can handle it.” He grins. “We can always call for pizza.”

  Two hours later, we’ve got the meat filling on top of a bunch of square pieces of pasta, and we’re working on making the little tortellini pouches. I’m having a blast.

  “Are your feet hurting?” he asks. “Mine are.”

  “A bit.”

  He goes to the other side of a half-wall countertop that separates the kitchen from the living room and retrieves two cushioned black stools for us to sit on.

  “I should’ve thought of that,” I say, taking a seat. We’ve been on our feet for hours.

  “You were distracted by Massimo and neurogenetics,” he says, sitting next to me. “Aren’t we all?”

  I smile and keep working on my cute pouches of pasta. “I think we made too much. We’re going to have hundreds of these little buggers.”

  “You can never have too much pasta.”

  “Uh, yeah, you can. Too many carbs and you’ll puff out like the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

  “He should totally stop eating himself. Ooh, that sounds dirty. Naughty Chloe.”

  I roll my eyes.

  He’s quiet for a moment as he works. “I heard it’s tough to get into Harvard Medical School. Do you have a plan B?”

  I still. He looked into it? I glance over at him, but his focus is on his pasta, so I return to my own pasta. “Yeah, it’s tough. It’s my goal, but, of course, I’ll apply other places.”

  “Where?”

  I glance over, surprised he wants to know. I’ve still got a year left at Columbia. Does he expect we’ll still be hanging out by the time med school rolls around? That’s kinda nice that he cares so much about our friendship. “Johns Hopkins, Penn—”

  “NYU?”

  “Yeah, I’ll apply there. Also, Stanford.”

  “That’s in California. NYU’s a great school. So’s Columbia.” Those last two are in New York. Aww, he wants us to keep hanging out. It’s so sweet.

  “I know,” I say softly. “I’ll apply there too. But my first choice is Harvard.”

  “And after that?”

  “I’ll do my residency, and then I hope to get a fellowship at a top cancer research center.”

  “Which could be someplace besides where you go to medical school?”

  “Yes. It’s a whole other application process.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s a lot of hard work to reach your goal. Probably a lot of moving around too.”

  I lift my gaze to his in question.

  His eyes are serious, though he keeps his tone light. “Not as hard as making tortellini, but still.”

  There’s a definite tension in the air, something that wasn’t there before. I don’t know what to do about it, so I ignore it. I can’t change who I am, and it’s better if he knows that up front.

  “Speaking of tortellini,” I say, breaking the tense silence, “I’ve got like a thousand here compared to your measly twenty-one.”

  “Oh, you noticed my pyramid of greatness.” He’s got neat rows of tortellini—six, five, four, three, two, one.

  I throw the top tortellini at hi
m and it bounces off his forehead.

  “You’ll regret that, Travers,” he says, pelting me with tortellini, two at a time.

  “Hey!” I grab a huge handful and fire back.

  He keeps coming at me, dodging tortellini before pushing me back to the counter behind me, his hands on either side of me, boxing me in. My smile drops, my breath stuttering out. He’s suddenly so close, the heat of him making my pulse race, my body flushing in excitement.

  Then I notice his arm is raised. He’s holding the small carton of heavy cream right over my head.

  “Don’t you dare!” I grab his arm, and he wobbles it threateningly.

  “Careful. You’re gonna make it spill.”

  I think quick and grab a nearby wooden spoon, giving his ass a light swat.

  He gasps and sets the cream down. “Did you just spank me?”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “Oh, it is on.” He wrestles the spoon out of my grip, and I make a run for it, grabbing a throw pillow from his sofa as a shield and running with it against my butt.

  He chases me, but I’m nimble and dodge him, running around the coffee table and weaving around a giant recliner. He lunges right, and I go left. Next thing I know we’re running in a circle around the coffee table. He fakes a turn, and I run smack into him, drop the pillow, and stumble back over it.

  He catches me before I can fall, his arms wrapped around me. His voice is husky, his gaze eating me up. “You’re trouble.”

  I can’t help myself. I reach up and stroke his short beard, tracing the line of his strong jaw. He swallows visibly. “You’re the one who’s trouble.”

  His big hand cups the back of my neck. Desire pools low in my belly.

  A beat passes in shimmering silence before his mouth covers mine. I tilt my head, deepening the kiss. Heat floods me as he takes over the kiss. I’m nearly dizzy with lust and shocked at the intensity.

  He breaks the kiss suddenly and pulls away. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  My stomach drops. “Because of the woman you were with last night?” I blurt.

  He stares at the floor for a long moment. “Yeah.”