The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  What the hell is he talking about?

  “I don’t follow you on social media.” I unfollowed him after I graduated, because I realized following him was once again, another distraction.

  “What? You don’t?” He looks hurt. I’m sure he’ll get over it. “Then how did you find out about the fundraiser?”

  “Amazingly enough, I don’t get all my information from Instagram posts.”

  “Snarky, okay. Then how did you find out about it?”

  He unwraps the burgers and fries and sets them carefully on the plate, making an entire presentation out of it by making a swirl across the white surface with ketchup and mustard. Uh, is he a baseball player or is he competing for a spot on Top Chef?

  “Lindsay and Emory,” I answer, not even thinking about it as I stare at the way his fingers delicately place the fries to resemble a teepee.

  “And why would they send it to you?”

  His thumb rubs against the plate, smooth and with pressure as he spins it around. What else could that thumb do?

  “Because they were teasing me.” The moment the words slip past my lips, I instantly regret them.

  “Teasing you, huh? What were they teasing you about? Do you have some kind of crush on me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I nearly throw up on the elegantly displayed burger and fries.

  “What? No.” I shake my head. “No.” I flatten my palm against the surface of my desk. “No.”

  Go ahead, say no one more time, Dottie, you can’t be more obvious at this point.

  “Uh-huh.” He eyes me suspiciously and then stands from his chair, leans over my desk, and unfolds a napkin, only to slip it into my exposed neckline. And for some weird reason, I want more than a napkin dipping into my exposed neckline. I want his fingers. Maybe his tongue.

  What the hell, Domico? Get it together.

  Which I will . . . once he stops standing so close, being a gentleman, pandering to my needs . . .

  He tips my chin up with a smile and says, “Bon appétit.”

  Chapter Six

  JASON

  Thanks to Carson and some “research,” these are the things I know about Dorothy “Dottie” Domico:

  She went to school with us.

  She was a year ahead of me.

  She doesn’t have much of a life outside of work.

  She’s a bigwig for one of the biggest real estate companies in the country—yeah, the fucking country.

  She’s best friends with Lindsay and Emory.

  And she likes burgers and fries—thanks, Emory, for that small tidbit.

  But what I wasn’t prepared for was how goddamn gorgeous she is.

  Yeah, I saw a few pictures of her, but they were nothing compared to the real thing. Because sitting in front of me is by far the most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking seen. We’re talking, I can’t take my eyes off her beautiful.

  She went to fucking college with me, partied at the baseball house, so how did I not see her?

  Long black hair, straight and luscious, with ocean-blue eyes, and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. And don’t get me started on her lips . . . full and enticing, just looking for trouble.

  I was expecting Dottie to be attractive, but a bombshell? She has me feeling all nervous and fumbly. I spent extra time arranging her plate so I didn’t show how shaky my hands were. My hands. Shaky. I get paid a hella lot of money because my hands are never shaky.

  Besides her obvious smack me in the dick good looks, she’s also a powerhouse, from the firm set in her jaw, the assertive tone of her voice, and the way she carries herself. There’s no denying she has a shield up and prefers to keep it that way.

  Too bad for her, I can look past shields.

  “Normally I’d cook something for a date, but since this was for a fundraiser and I’m not good with traveling with homecooked meals, I thought ordering out would be easier.” When she doesn’t touch her food, I say, “Emory told me you like this burger, that it’s your favorite out of all the burgers in the world, which means you have no reason not to eat it.”

  “I’m on a diet,” she says with a monotone voice.

  “Liar. Now eat, unless you plan on hurting my feelings twice in one night.”

  “I have no problem hurting people’s feelings.”

  “Ah, a tight-ass with no awareness for the people around them. Pretty sure I’ve seen your type before.”

  “Are you calling me unoriginal?”

  “Nope.” I smile. “I’m calling your current attitude unoriginal. Try unclenching your ass cheeks for a second to take a deep breath.”

  Her jaw works side to side, her arms tightening, giving off a don’t approach me vibe. I’m thinking I should have asked Emory for more information about her friend, because I don’t think this date is off to a good start.

  “I’m going to ask you nicely one more time to leave, and if you don’t, I will call security.”

  “No, you won’t. You would never toss one of Knox’s friends to the curb.”

  She leans forward, legs crossed under her desk, but from the glass desk, I can see how smooth and tan they are. “Knox is currently on my shit list so I have zero reservations about getting rid of you.”

  I take a bite of a fry and give her an effortless once-over. “Why don’t we start over?” I reach out my hand to her, which she makes no attempt to shake. “Jason Orson, thank you for donating to my charity; it meant a lot to me.”

  She stares at my hand for an achingly long ten seconds before taking my hand with hers and giving it a firm, not dainty shake. Okay . . .

  “You thanked me. You can leave now.”

  “I think you’re forgetting how a typical conversation works. You see, I said thank you, you should say you’re welcome.”

  Groaning, she picks up a fry and bites into it. “Let me guess, you’re one of those annoying people who charms with quick wit and then gets their way.”

  I raise my hand. “Guilty.”

  “So you’re just like Knox. Will keep wearing you down until you give in.”

  “Glad you’re seeing it now, saving me the hassle of having to chip away at that cold exterior of yours.” I whisper and say, “P.S. I knew you wouldn’t call security on me.”

  She picks up her burger and before taking a big bite, she says, “Twelve-year-old girls say P.S. and security is only a quick phone call away. Don’t test me.”

  “Does that mean we’re on a date?”

  She squints in mocked anger. “It means I’m hungry, and I can only have this burger in front of me untouched for so long.”

  “Please tell me you’re about to own that piece of meat.”

  Slyly, she glances at me and says, “I own every piece of meat that’s put in front of me.”

  Good.

  Fuck.

  My dick just twitched. Not sure if it was out of excitement or pure terror, but I guess there’s only one way to find out.

  * * *

  Have you ever eaten a meal by yourself? The peaceful silence, the thought-provoking conversations you have in your head, the inside jokes you tell yourself. A winning experience every person should have at least once.

  But when you have it, make sure you’re actually alone, not sitting across from a burger-annihilating woman with a pinch in her brow and a snarl in her lip.

  First, I’d like to preface what I’m about to say with this: I find it super sexy when a woman eats in front of a man. I love it when they’re not embarrassed and just act themselves. Now, don’t kill me when I say, watching Dottie Domico take down her burger is one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever experienced.

  I don’t think she stopped to take a breath.

  It was as if her burger were a pair of ripe tits and she motorboated them until there was nothing left. At one point, I looked up to see her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, ketchup hanging off her chin, chomping down like she had one minute left to eat the whole thing.

  I’ve never seen anything like it.

&nbs
p; It’s clearly why we sat there in silence the whole time, not a word passing between us. Every time I went to ask her a question, it was as if she had a sixth sense—knowing exactly when I was going to speak—and she shoved another big bite in her mouth, followed by a fry chaser.

  After my fifth attempt to say something, I stopped trying for the mere chance that if she kept going at the rate she was, she could die from asphyxiation by burger meat.

  So instead, I sat there, ate my burger at a normal human rate, and tried to think of things to talk about after we were done with our meal.

  Because I’m a good guy, I feel this need to make right on this date, to really give her the full experience, even if she accidentally donated to my charity. Which, can we pause for a second and talk about that? A little bit of a gut check happened when she claimed to want to donate to something else. That kind of realization never feels good, but what I did find interesting is somehow she was looking at my fundraiser, especially if Lindsay and Emory sent it, so there was some interest there. Who knows if it was interest in me or interest in my charity. Either way, I’m still in the picture.

  Interest is all I need. If there was no interest, I’d probably think of an escape route, but something tells me there’s more to Dottie. It’s like I’ve seen the incredible, fearsome, and fucking amazing surface . . . her façade. What she gives to those she doesn’t yet trust. But she’s Emory’s best friend, so I know she must be good people. I want to know the next level. Who is she away from her desk? Who is she when she’s not a bigwig of a major company? And why hasn’t she asked anything about me? I’m still confused how we didn’t know each other in college. And I’m extremely curious why she denied four times that she had a crush on me. That little tidbit has been filed away in the I’ll explore that later box. Right now, I’m determined to find the friend. The girl I’m sure I’ll like.

  Plus, I’m that guy who needs everyone to like them. It’s why I cook for my teammates. I want them to know I can nourish them, that I’m the key to pleasing their taste buds. It’s general knowledge that chefs are always loved the most in the group of friends, because who doesn’t want to be fed properly?

  Dottie is putting up a front, acting like she doesn’t like me, like she doesn’t want me near her, but I’m going to peel back that defensive layer and let her true personality shine.

  She’ll want to be friends by the end of this night, I just know it.

  “Enjoy your burger?” From the back of her throat, she burps, the sound muffled by her closed mouth but I still heard it, so I say, “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

  She presses her napkin to her mouth, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “It was fine.”

  “Fine?” I ask, unable to control myself. “No one takes a burger down like you just did if it was only fine.”

  Her cheeks flush even more. It’s interesting that a strong, put-together woman who doesn’t care to shred an ounce of emotion can actually blush. Maybe there’s a living being inside her after all.

  “You know, I wasn’t judging the way you ate one fry at a time, your pinky finger reaching to the sky, so why don’t you lay off the way I eat a burger?”

  “Oh, so you were paying attention to me. Huh, I thought you were just trying to tongue your burger the whole time. I almost put a do not disturb sign on your office door.”

  She folds her arms over her chest as she leans back in her chair, a look of disapproval on her face. “Explain to me how being an asshole is saving you from me calling security?”

  “Threats are like assholes; they’re pointless.” Huh, is that what I wanted to say?

  “That makes no sense at all, and I don’t know about you, but my asshole is impeccably clean.”

  I motion for her to stand with my fingers and whistle as my fingers twist, indicating her to turn around as well. “I’ll be the judge of that. Whip them off, Domico.”

  Her eyes narrow, her face contorting to one of pure hatred.

  Yikes.

  Looks like my teasing approach is a no-go.

  “We’re not friends, so don’t talk to me like one. If I ever ‘whipped’ my skirt off, it wouldn’t be for you. And, security is here.”

  “What?” I turn around in my chair to see two large men, dressed in all black making a beeline for me. They both grab one of my arms and lift me out of my chair. “Unhand me at once,” I say, struggling to get out of their grasps. I’m a large, strong man who’s spent many hours in the weight room, but I’m no match for the two men dragging me out of Dottie Domico’s office, my heels dragging in her plush rug.

  “Thanks for the burger.” She waves and then turns back to her computer.

  “You eat like a savage,” I call out. “And you have a piece of pepper in your teeth.” Her office door slams as I mutter, “Ungrateful wench.”

  In the elevator, I find out the names of her security guards—Edgar and Harry—and that they’ve been working with Miss Domico for two years now, and I’m the first one to be dragged out of her office. By the time we reached the lobby, we’re good friends. I signed a few autographs for them, took a picture for my IG—it’s always about the gram—told them I would tag them, and then I took off.

  To say I’m confused is an understatement.

  What the hell just happened?

  * * *

  “I knew telling you about the empty space across from my apartment was a bad idea,” Knox groans while I file into his living room wearing nothing but a pair of my favorite silk pajama pants, midnight black. They feel so smooth on my ass and balls that I love wearing them around the house, only to slip into my bed completely naked. It’s like a pre-game of relaxation for my most private areas.

  I take a seat on his couch and set down a plate of freshly baked brownies. I’m a sucker for a deliciously rich brownie, especially if they have walnuts and marshmallows in them. *Kisses fingers* Perfection.

  “Don’t yell at him, he brought goodies,” Emory says. Wrapped up in a robe, she sits next to me and takes two brownies off the plate. “Oh, they’re still warm. Hey Knox, grab us some milk.” Emory takes a giant bite and moans before taking one more.

  “Double fisting. Nice,” I say to her as she reaches for one more. “Hey, they’re not going anywhere.” I laugh as she whips her head toward me and stares venomously.

  Jesus.

  What’s with women today?

  “I can take as many as I want,” she hisses.

  I put my hands up, one clutching a brownie. “I’m not going to stop you, so by all means, eat the whole plate.”

  Knox brings over three glasses of milk and says, “She’s been temperamental all day. She threw an empty can of peanuts at me this morning because she was mad they were all gone.”

  “Who puts the empty can back in the pantry? Get rid of it, don’t trick a hungry person looking for peanuts into thinking there are still peanuts left,” she says, her voice growing angrier. “There were NO PEANUTS left, Knox. No goddamn peanuts!”

  Ehhh . . .

  I scoot a few inches away, feeling the boiling heat popping off Emory, afraid she might lash out on me over the lack of peanuts.

  “Um, I have some peanuts over at my place, if you want some.”

  “You do, do you? Aren’t you super helpful? Especially since I wanted them at six this morning. How do you think your peanuts are going to help me now? Huh, Jason? How the hell are they supposed to HELP ME NOW?” She rips into a brownie and chomps at me, snapping her teeth like a motherfucking lobster coming at me with its claws. Brownie seeps into the cracks of her teeth as she snarls and I swear to Christ himself, if I lose my face skin over peanuts, I’m going to be super pissed.

  Just when she leans in closer, teeth bared and brownies held tightly in her clutches, the doorbell rings.

  Knox hops to his feet. “That would be the test.”

  “The test?” I ask, scooting farther away.

  Knox answers the door, thanks the concierge, and then shuts the door. He thrusts a
brown bag at Emory and points down the hall. “Go. Now.”

  She stands tall, brownies still in one hand. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

  “I’ll talk to you however I please, woman. Now go to the bathroom and tell me if there is a demon growing inside you or not.”

  Demon? Inside her?

  “If there is, it’s yours, which means this is all your fault. All of this.” She motions up and down her body. “If anything is sadistic in this house”—she pats Knox’s junk, causing him to buckle over—“it’s your sperm.”

  Ahhh . . . She’s pregnant. I don’t need to see the results of that test to know. Emory is the coolest, sweetest girl I know, but right now, she looks like she’s two seconds away from morphing in an ogre and shitting on everyone’s dinner with a giant green plop.

  After she stomps down the hallway, I ask, “Uh, maybe I should go. This seems like a private matter.”

  Knox shakes his head. “No, you have to stay now because I’m afraid what will happen if the test is positive. I’m not sure if she’ll be happy or ready to rip my balls off and stuff them down my throat.”

  “Valid concern.” I look down the hallway where Emory disappeared. “She was straight-up terrifying back there.”

  “Tell me about it. She’s been like that for the last week. I have no idea what to do. One minute she’s laughing, then she’s crying, and then she’s laughing again . . . between sobs. Dude, it’s some freaky shit.”

  “Yeah, she sounds pregnant. Are you excited?”

  “I mean”—he scratches the back of his head—“it’s a little out of order than how I would want things to go, but yeah, I’m excited. I want babies with Emory, I just hope she’s okay with it.”

  “I’m sure she will be. She would be an awesome mom and you would be a subpar dad.”

  “Wow, thanks.”