by Ryan, Lexi
Me: I hate that you’re doing that! What if I find somewhere else to live?
Kace: Sorry, Freckles. I’m a little rusty. Let me restate that—I want to get you alone, and I’m using my progress on the pool house as a flimsy excuse to get my hands on you. And my mouth . . . if you’re interested.
I bite my lip. This guy makes my stomach flip-flop so much. Talking to him like this is like being at the top of the first big hill of a roller coaster—all exhilaration with a dash of terror. I was going to wake up early and go straight to campus, but I do some mental calculations to figure out how to squeeze a little time with Kace into my day.
Me: I can give you thirty minutes before I have to meet my study group. Big test tomorrow.
Kace: I’ll take it.
Eep.
And I’m supposed to study tonight, knowing this is happening in the morning? I’m supposed to sleep? How exactly?
Me: What happened to needing HOURS to savor me?
Kace: Oh, I still do, but with my custody schedule, I don’t see that happening for another week at the soonest. So in the meantime, it’s a beggars-can’t-be-choosers situation.
Me: And which one of us is begging in this scenario?
Kace: Right now, it’s me, but tomorrow morning, it’ll be you.
Me: Hmm . . . we’ll see.
Kace: Go study before I have to climb into a cold shower.
Me: Sweet dreams.
* * *
Kace
By the time eight fifteen hits on Friday morning, I’m on my second cup of coffee and have already adjusted my expectations from get Stella naked to find a private corner and kiss the shit out of her.
I’m an early riser. I’ve always been that way. Days just feel better in general when I get a few miles in before the sun’s up. Today, that meant the treadmill, since Hope was still sleeping, but I prefer the road, the rising sun on the horizon. This way I was able to get my run done, shower, and answer a few emails all before seven. I was getting Hope ready for school when the doorbell rang, and I found Smithy waiting on my front porch with a grin and a crowbar.
“Let me at those cabinets,” he said. And there went my plans for thirty minutes of alone time with Stella.
Eight seventeen.
She’s late anyway, so Smithy probably didn’t spoil anything, but the anticipation is making me crazy. I’m distracted as hell. I feel like I’m in high school again with my first serious girlfriend.
I sink onto the porch swing with my coffee. I check my phone and smile when I see I have a new Random message from my favorite animated text buddy.
I’m not sure what to think about this tug I feel in my chest every time I hear from her. I never expected to connect with anyone on this app, but I actually look forward to talking to her.
ItsyBitsy123: Good morning, handsome. I’m running late today, but I logged on here anyway. What can I say? You’ve made a monster out of me. Anyway, I’m sitting here in PJs, still half asleep, and instead of finding a sweet message from you, I see this message from some other dude: “S’alright if you’re ugly, darlin. I won’t be looking at your face when I slide it in your ass.”
If you weren’t gracing my account with your sweetness, that might just be it for me. Messages like that are the reason hetero women adopt thirteen cats and swear off men.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for couples communicating their sexual wants and needs, but “you’re ugly but I’d still fuck your ass” seems like a strange jumping-off point. Whatever happened to the old-school romantics? You know—the ones who buy you a drink and lie to you about your beauty before informing you which holes they plan to stick it in. I know, I know, picky bitch.
Heading out now. Xoxo
Heading out where, I wonder. I don’t even know where this woman works or what she does for a living, but I’m not ready to make it real by asking. For all I know, she could be Hope’s preschool teacher or the barista who always remembers my order at the café by the office. I’d rather we remain anonymous until this fling with Stella runs its course.
I want to say the right thing in my reply. Sure, Itsy was sharing to give me a good laugh, but she was also showing me this vulnerable part of her. Telling me about the jerk who messaged her could’ve been her way of explaining she’s been hurt before.
I’m still grinning at my phone and contemplating my response when Stella pulls into my driveway. I stand and wait on the front of the porch to greet her as she climbs out of her car. It’s twenty past eight, and she looks like she can barely keep her eyes open. She’s in frayed jean shorts and a wide-necked black T-shirt that falls off one shoulder. Her red hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head, and yesterday’s makeup is smudged around her eyes. She’s so fucking beautiful.
Guilt is a wrench tightening my gut. I’m staring at her, wanting her, right after Itsy shared something private with me. I’m not sure I’ll ever be comfortable talking with one girl while messing around with another. Being honest isn’t enough. I’m going to have to figure out what I want, and fast.
Stella yawns as she climbs the front steps. “I would do dirty, dirty things to you for a cup of that coffee,” she says, and all thoughts of guilt fly from my mind as I bite back a groan.
After all, “dirty things” was the plan until Smithy showed up on my doorstep at seven a.m. “No dirty favors necessary.” I open the front door for her and nod toward the kitchen. “Help yourself.”
“You sure?” She waggles her brows. “Give me cream and sugar, and I’d even play patty-cake.”
I freeze. I’m going to kill those fucking assholes. “Do I have Smithy or Dean to thank for that little jab?”
“Only yourself, GoodHands.” She winks at me. “Give me some credit. I can be clever.”
Nope. Murder is too kind. Whichever one of my dickwad friends is responsible for this deserves torture.
I follow her inside and watch as she pours herself a cup of coffee and doctors it with cream and sugar. The contents of her mug are a light beige by the time she brings it to her lips. She moans around the first sip, and then the second.
My breath hitches. Pull it together, Matthews. “Good news or bad news first?”
“Good, please.”
“I have an extra set of hands helping me today, meaning the pool house will be that much closer to finished by the weekend.”
She narrows her eyes. “And the bad news?”
“Kace!” Smithy calls from the back door, as if on cue. “Get your ass out here.”
I grimace. “Smithy is that set of hands, and he’s already here. So plans have changed a little.”
She takes another sip of her coffee then sweeps her tongue across her bottom lip in a way that makes all the blood rush south of my belt. “No begging?”
Slowly, I trail my gaze down her neck, over her bare, freckled shoulder, and down to her thighs. “I didn’t say that.”
“Oh, hey, Stella!” Smithy says, strolling into the kitchen. “Damn, girl, you look like you were ridden hard and put away wet.”
Stella’s jaw unhinges. “Smith! I was up late studying, asshole.”
Smithy chuckles and winks at her. “I’m just jealous I wasn’t the one doing the riding, is all.”
An unexpected surge of protective jealousy swells in my chest, and I fix him with my glare. “She looks great. Don’t be a dick.”
Smithy’s eyes go wide before ping-ponging between us. “Okay, then, my apologies.”
Stella nudges me with her elbow. “It’s fine. Smithy, I’m here to see my future abode.” She grimaces, leaving no doubt how she feels about this arrangement, then checks her watch. “And I need to leave in twenty minutes, so we should move quickly.”
* * *
Stella
Kace and Smithy lead the way out the back door and around the pool. The sliders on the front of the pool house are standing open, and Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” is playing from a wireless speaker.
“We cleared everything out,”
Kace says, motioning for me to step in ahead of him. “Then patched the broken tiles with the extras we found in the loft. Today, Smithy and I will be pulling out these old cabinets and prepping for the new ones, which should be delivered on Monday.”
“I think these fuckers were hung with Super Glue,” Smithy says, reaching for the crowbar.
I flinch and step forward. Seeing Smithy with a crowbar is like watching a child pick up a semiautomatic. “Careful, Smith.”
Kace touches my arm and shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
My eyes widen. “Really?” I’d be uncomfortable with Smithy holding a butter knife.
“I’ve worked on hundreds of remodels with him, and he’s surprisingly competent with tools.”
Smithy grins. “Funny—your mom said the same thing,” he says, then he adds in a couple of hip thrusts for good measure.
A cackle rips from my chest, and I smile and feel lighter for the first time all morning. In truth, I’ve been in a shit mood since getting that rude message on Random. Some guys know just what to say to make you feel like trash, and I attract them by the dozen for whatever reason. I turn to Kace. “You’ve done so much work. This is nuts.”
“It hasn’t been as much as you’d think.”
Of course he’d say that. “I have tomorrow off. Tell me how I can help.”
He shrugs. “We were going to paint this weekend, but—”
“I’ll be here. I can’t let you do all this work for me without pitching in a little.”
Kace nods toward the stairs. “Let me show you what we’re working with up here.”
I follow him up, making an effort not to stare at his ass, though if this world were fair and just, I’d get a view of his ass on a daily basis.
Smithy starts singing again, but the lyrics are muffled by the time we reach the landing of the loft. Suddenly, I’m all too conscious of being alone up here with Kace. I should be looking at the wood floors or noticing how big this area feels now that it’s not piled with boxes. I should be appreciating the skylights and imagining what it’d be like to sleep here.
Instead, I’m trying not to stare at Kace and obsessing over what’s happening between us and how it might change when I move in.
“I know there’s not a ton of space up here, but you could easily fit a queen-size bed against that wall, and I’m going to pick up some IKEA closet units to install over there.” He points to the opposite side of the space. When he turns to me, his eyes are bright, and he looks hopeful. “What do you think?”
Flames of embarrassment lick my cheeks. I need to be practical, but I hate that he’s had to do so much just so I won’t be homeless. I want Mom to live comfortably for the first time in her life, and Dean’s plan can make that happen.
My sigh gets caught in my throat as Kace spins me around and presses his mouth to my neck.
“What do you think?” he asks, but before I can answer, he has me pressed against the wall, his hands on my waist, his teeth scraping lightly across my bare shoulder. He drops his voice to a whisper, and the words are a sensuous tickle against my ear. “I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you standing on my front porch this morning.”
Tilting my head to the side to give him better access, I loop my arms behind his neck. He sucks my earlobe into his mouth, and I bite back a whimper.
“You should probably say something.” He’s still whispering. I swear he’s doing it more to torture me than to be stealthy. “Otherwise, Smithy will get suspicious.” He slips one hand under my shirt and glides his knuckles across my belly.
“I like it,” I say, too loudly, and my voice hitches a little. Because, fuck, I do like it. I like his hands and his mouth and the way his fingertips skim the waistband of my shorts.
Pulling back, he grins and studies my face. His hand dips lower, his knuckles grazing the fabric between my thighs. “Me too,” he whispers.
I dressed for comfort, but if I could have a redo, I’d put on skimpy lace panties and a skirt. I adjust my stance, shifting into his touch.
“Tell me you’ve thought about me this week. About this.”
So much. Too much. “Maybe a little.”
His grin turns lopsided, cocky, but his words are loud enough for Smithy to hear when he says, “I’m thinking gray on the wardrobe.” He turns his hand and slides it into my shorts, hovering just above the spot where I ache for him. “Would you like that?”
“I might.” I thread my fingers into his hair and watch him through my lashes. “I guess it depends on the execution.”
“I think I’ve proven I have skills in this area.” He finds my center, then draws light circles. “I promise you’ll be satisfied.”
Downstairs, Smithy’s singing along with Britney Spears and probably completely oblivious to everything we’re saying, even the part of this conversation we’re having for his benefit.
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” I say, but I ruin my bravado with a gasp when his fingers slip inside my panties. He holds my gaze as he glides his fingertips over my slick flesh. Kace’s eyes are dark, and his pulse thrums wildly at the base of his neck.
“Stella, didn’t you need to get moving?” Smithy calls from downstairs.
Shit. “Study group,” I blurt, trying to get my brain working again. “I have study group.”
Kace lowers his mouth to mine and sucks my bottom lip between his teeth. When he steps back, his eyes are dark and all over me. “Think about me,” he whispers. “Then keep next Wednesday night free for me.”
I swallow. “I work until eight on Wednesdays.”
“Then you’d better prepare yourself for a late night.” He brings his fingers—the fingers that were just touching me so intimately—to his mouth and sucks them clean. Winking, he turns toward the stairs. I want to yank him back and beg him to finish what he started, but I have study group at nine and a chemistry test I need to ace, so I’ve no choice but to follow on trembling legs.
Chapter Fourteen
Stella
As fun as this morning with Kace was, my day went south pretty fast when I proceeded to bomb my first chemistry test, then struck out again on the roommate hunt. Meanwhile, Mr. Mixed Signals hasn’t messaged me via text or Random all day, and I feel a little weird about it, even though the rational part of my brain keeps reminding me that I saw him less than nine hours ago.
Luckily, Smithy’s is my favorite place in the world, and the second I walk in the door on Friday night, I feel lighter.
“Stella!” Smithy calls from behind the lacquered walnut bar. I remember when Dean and Kace helped him refinish and install that piece. Before that, a Formica counter stood in its place. “Whatcha drinking tonight, beautiful?”
I force a smile for the sake of my favorite bartender and slide onto a stool, hanging my purse on the hook beneath the bar. “Vodka soda?” It comes out like a question. The truth is, this week’s been a great reminder that I shouldn’t be wasting money on drinks, but roommate hunting in Orchid Valley is worse than dating here, so I’ve earned it.
Smithy prepares my drink and drops a lime in without asking. He knows me well. “What’s bringing you down, beautiful?” he asks, leaning on the bar. “Did you get stood up?”
I take a sip from my glass, and my eyes go wide. Hello, vodka, and God bless Smithy for making this one so strong. “Nope. I’m still looking for a place to stay.”
“I thought you were moving in with Matthews.”
I frown. Pool-house life is looking more and more likely. “I’d rather not take advantage of his generosity for longer than necessary, but I don’t know if I’ll have any other options.”
Smithy bobs his head. “Apartment hunting’s a bitch if you’re on a budget.”
I grunt at the understatement of the century. “I’ve been looking all week with no luck.” That’s not one hundred percent true. Someone named Taylor ran an ad looking for a roommate, stating “only females need apply.” The place was great and the price reasonable. Except “Taylor” was
a middle-aged balding guy who barely looked away from my tits the entire time I toured his apartment. Hard pass.
“You could move in with me,” Smithy says.
I laugh. Smithy lives in a gorgeous condo with a view of Lake Blackledge, but it’s a one-bedroom. “And sleep where?”
His grin slowly transforms his stoner stare into a face that could star in female fantasies all over the world. “My bed’s a king. There’s plenty of room.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Dream on, my friend.”
“Oh, I will.” He winks at me, then heads down the bar.
Smithy’s offer to share his bed is still less creepy than Taylor’s offer to give me a discount on the rent, “Since I can tell you’re a sweet girl.” I shudder. I went back to Mom’s and showered after that one, but even the hottest water wasn’t enough to wipe the slime off.
I pull out my phone and nurse my drink as I scroll through social media. I want my girls to come join me and tell me everything’s going to be all right, but Brinley and Marston are spending the night in Atlanta, Savvy has a date with someone who’s not Alec, and Abbi said she’d be working late prepping food for tomorrow’s wedding at The Orchid.
I sit, stew, and wish I was in the right mindset to drink my feelings, but I’m not. When I can’t handle it anymore, I open Random and stare at Kace’s profile picture. It’s most likely because the messaging feature was never intended to be used extensively, but I wish they’d update it so I could see his picture and not just his username. I want to see his face when we chat.
After sitting on my hands all day, trying to resist the impulse to message him, I finally convince myself to stop being a coward. I’ve just sent, Hey there, sexy, why so quiet? when Smithy calls, “Kace!”
I instinctively jerk my head toward the entrance. Kace strolls toward me. He’s rocking his lumberjack-hottie look today—jeans faded from wear and not a designer, and a Georgia Tech T-shirt that stretches snugly across his chest, shoulders, and biceps. His jaw is covered with his usual dark stubble, and his hair is wet and combed back from his face like he just took a shower. All in all, he’s still the sexy motherfucker I’ve wanted since I was fifteen. Sexier, honestly. Fifteen-year-old me would’ve been totally unimpressed by the scruffy facial hair look, but twenty-seven-year-old me wants to climb him like a tree.