Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  I guess he’s not in a teasing mood because without a word he turns and stalks out. I watch him go, catching a glimpse of pink fabric peeking out of his back pocket before he disappears.

  I fight the urge to go after him to retrieve my panties. Instead, I walk my taco to the freezer and throw it in amongst the graveyard of half-eaten delights.

  I spend the next twenty minutes cleaning the kitchen, humming Glen Campbell’s “Gentle on My Mind.” I introduced Rose to YouTube, and she introduced me to Glen Campbell—her only love besides her husband, Marty.

  I smile at the memory, toss the paper towel in the bin, and look appraisingly to the kitchen. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do until the morning.

  I grab Jesse’s phone from the counter, and I follow his loud snores into the living room. I automatically go to set his phone on the end table, but my hand is met with table-less air. I wonder how many times I’ll do that. It’s supposed to take twenty-one days for an old mental image to dissolve and a new one to form. Twenty-one days can’t come soon enough. Neither can the twenty-three days I have left on my prison sentence with Ben.

  My eyes turn to Jesse who’s covered with one of Rose’s crochet blankets. Ben must’ve covered him. The thought makes me lonely. All alone in Ben’s wrath.

  * * *

  I walk down the hall to my room, stopping when I hear the old pipes of the shower running.

  Don’t do it, Em.

  Do. Not. Do. It.

  Before I can listen to my logical self, I’m speed-walking like Beverly Goldberg to the bathroom door. I slowly try the handle. It turns, unlocked. I step back and steel my spine. I just have to go in, grab my panties, and walk out.

  He may not even notice. Easy peasy.

  I take in a deep breath through my nose, feeling like I’m about to swan dive off a cliff, and slowly push open the door. The air is moist and heavy with steam. I shake away the image of his naked body under the hot spray from my mind.

  A tired groan echoes off the walls, and I dive in a panic like a weirdo, hitting the floor hard, so hard the air is kicked from my lungs. I close my eyes, waiting for him to slide open the glass doors. When that doesn’t happen, I tilt my head up, and my eyes narrow in on the prize.

  His jeans and T-shirt lie in a pile near the foot of the bathtub. I clench my teeth and start an army crawl. Like I’m G.I. fucking Jane. My fatigue is forgotten. My muscles vibrate with a shot of adrenaline.

  I crawl as close as I can to the tub. Lying flat, I let my fingers fumble through his jeans. Excitement zings up my spine as I pull my pink panties from his pocket. With my heart trying to break free from my chest and sweat beading on my brow, I smile.

  And it feels fucking victorious.

  Hoorah!

  Until water drips on my head, followed by a deep voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I freeze for a split second.

  Then I do a smooth combat roll away from the tub, which I’m sure looks totally badass. And with my panties clutched in my hand, I jump up and make a mad dash for the door, hitting the light off as I swing it open.

  I fly down the hall. I don’t even feel my feet hit the floor as I charge into my room. I rush to the bed and stuff my parachute panties under the mattress. I feel light-headed, and a bit dizzy, but not even that can erase the smile from my face.

  I sit on the bed and scoot back against the headboard, resting my arm behind my head like I’m just chilling. My chest rising and falling with my quick breaths is the only thing betraying my mission. Mission accomplished, that is.

  I grin when I hear Ben’s heavy footfalls. He walks in, the towel loosely gripped around his waist with one hand, his body dripping wet, his eyes flashing to my empty hands.

  I will not think about what would have happened if I was still holding the panties.

  “Proud of yourself?” he asks, humor lighting his eyes.

  I nod, my smile so wide it hurts.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” he warns before his lips tip into a small unguarded-honest-to-god smile.

  A genuine smile. Aimed at me.

  And, hell hasn’t frozen over. Win-win.

  “Oh, I intend to,” I gloat, basking in the glow of his attention. “Maybe I should join the army.”

  He chuckles with a shake of his wet head and walks to the new dresser, water beading down his body. He pulls out a clean T-shirt. Of course, he’s put his clothes away.

  I think about my clothes heaps in the closet—one dirty, one clean. He must think I’m a total slob. Not that I care what he thinks.

  “You wouldn’t last two days,” he says, opening another drawer.

  Probably the drawer that contains his non-grandpa underwear.

  “Yes, I would.” I turn my eyes to my knees. This feels too intimate. Me lying in bed while he gets dressed.

  I hear the drawer close.

  “No. You wouldn’t,” he states, his voice betraying the fact he’s getting dressed.

  “I’ve lasted this long with you… so, I’m pretty sure I can do anything,” I shoot back.

  “Is that right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So then you should have no problem getting us out of this marriage mess. I’ll leave you to it.” Before I can argue, he disappears through the door.

  After a few moments, I blindly change into something to sleep in from the pile in my closet and climb back into bed. Well, truth be told, I flop onto the bed like a baby seal. And use my seal flipper arms to reposition myself until I’m comfortable. Yes, it looks as graceful as it sounds.

  My body feels like it’s lined with lead weights as I struggle against gravity to grab my pillow, ignoring that it smells like Ben, and tuck it under my head, sinking into the mattress.

  My thoughts travel to parachute panties, perfect pancakes, and phony proposals. I let out a sigh of relief when I realize I’m too tired to give a shit.

  Too tired to worry about tomorrow and the monsoon of embarrassment I’m in for with Mrs. Baker. Too tired to care when the bed dips and Ben’s heavy arm and man-scent surround me. Too tired to care that I snuggle closer to him. Too tired to care that the content sigh he gives the top of my head does curious things to my body.

  Too tired to care that I drift off with a small smile on my face.

  A smile put there by Ben.

  13

  Eskimo Kiss of Death

  I crack open my eyes against the morning light and lazily blink them into focus, in no particular rush to start what I know is going to be another hellish day.

  My heart seizes in my chest as the blurred blob lying on the other side of the bed morphs into a half-naked Ben.

  Yep. Hellish. Sometimes I hate being right.

  He’s lying on his side, shirtless, his arm tucked under a pillow with his sleepy gaze fixed on me. I take in a sharp breath as a Pulp Fiction shot of adrenalin kickstarts my heart.

  He was totally watching me sleep.

  What’s worse than waking up in bed with someone creepily staring at you like a serial killer who enjoys a nice Chianti paired with liver and fava beans? When that someone is your mortal enemy and the recent subject of an earth-shattering sex dream.

  “Well, that’s not creepy,” I grumble. My voice sounds dull and groggy, unlike my mind which is starting to clear to something almost human.

  The last time I slept this hard, I was sixteen and under general anesthesia for an emergency appendectomy.

  I brace myself as the last few days come crashing against my skull like sober lightning flashes of a tequila-fueled Spring Break. I hold my breath and run my thumb over the back of my ring finger feeling the warm metal. It’s there. It all really happened. Just freaking fantastic.

  That’s it. From this moment on, no more letting my emotions get the best of me. No more hormone-crazed shenanigans—

  “What were you dreaming about?” Ben’s deep rumbly voice cuts through my ardent vow, straight down my throat, where it takes hold of my next breath.

 
My eyes reluctantly meet his. There’s a mischievous glint in them that causes hot pinpricks to spread from the top of my head to my toes, putting even my pinkies on high alert.

  “You were talking in your sleep.” His lips hint at a smug grin that causes my stomach to drop and my pulse to spike.

  I want to say something cool, but I’m too distracted by how the morning sun has given his usually obsidian eyes a beautiful amber hew. Or maybe that’s how they always look when he’s not shooting someone a death glare.

  “I don’t know,” I lie, feeling my cheeks flame with the vivid dream of him doing impossible crafty things with his tongue on my most sensitive bits while somehow simultaneously thrusting inside me, sucking on my nipples, and biting my neck.

  I don’t have sex dreams often, but when I do, I go all out.

  I close my eyes against the memory, as if that’ll help, and raise the back of my hand to my mouth, stifling a non-existent yawn because that’s how I roll.

  “You said my name.” His grin widens, flashing white teeth set off by his dark beard. “Repeatedly,” he finishes like the cocky bastard he is.

  “It was a dream,” I grumble.

  “About me,” he says with a raised brow.

  I wonder what he’d look like without the beard. Probably younger. Probably more like the sweet boy in the pictures. Or like a Giorgio Armani men’s fragrance model.

  “Jesus. It was a dream. Get over yourself.” I try for a haughty laugh, but it comes out sounding more like the final squawk of a dying bird. So much for not doing stupid shit.

  It was fun while it lasted.

  “A sex dream,” he clarifies as he shifts, causing the sheet to pool around his Adonis waist. “About me.” He props his head up with his hand like he’s waiting for me to tell him a bedtime story.

  Not going to happen.

  My skin feels tight and tingly. A faint high-pitched ringing sounds in my ears as my blood pressure rises like a tea kettle.

  I hate that he has this effect on me. I hate that he looks so delicious half naked. Like a perfectly poisonous candy-red apple that I want to bite into, even though I know it will probably kill me. Definitely kill me.

  I take in a steady breath through my nose, schooling my expression, “I’ve also had a sex dream about Sloth from The Goonies, so…” The unfortunately true words are out before I can take them back.

  After an 80s-movie marathon and a questionable taco salad, Sloth rocked my world in a dream that I’m sure Freud would have had a field day with.

  If Ben didn’t already think I was a complete freak, that oughta do the trick. My stomach flutters as his eyes light with humor, crinkling the edges.

  “Did you tell Sloth to do it harder too?” he asks like he’s inquiring if I’d like a side of fruit or hash browns with my omelet.

  There’s a scene in Nightmare on Elm Street where Freddy Kruger reaches through the mattress and grabs Johnny Depp with his knife-fingers, pulling him through the bed until he disappears from the screen. Where the hell is Freddy when you need him.

  Ignoring the hot flush spreading from my chest through my body, I mimic his casual head-propped-on-hand pose and say the words that will hopefully beat him at this little game he’s playing.

  “Nope, didn’t have to.” I give him a saccharine sweet smile. “Unlike you, he knew what he was doing.” I finish with a Ben Crawford signature cocky wink. Not gonna lie, it feels freaking fantastic.

  Ben’s eyes darken and narrow slightly, and I give myself a mental high-five. Score!

  I’ve never really considered myself an ultra-competitive person. I mean, I like to win as much as the next person, but my chest has never burned hot with the need to win.

  That was before Ben. Now, I’m the guy playing mini-golf like he’s Dustin Johnson at The Masters, throwing clubs and scaring children.

  “Is that right?” His voice drops, his eyes flash with something I can’t name, but my body seems to know what it is, and it seems to think I need more of it.

  I should leave. I should get up right now and spend the next hour in the shower, scrubbing him out of my mind. Or better yet, I should pull a Forest Gump and run out the door, and keep running, and running, and running…

  Too bad running isn’t an option. Not only because I’m totally out of shape and wouldn’t make it past the driveway, but because that means he wins whatever this is. And I can’t have that.

  “Guess even in my dreams, you’re not man enough for me,” I say with a taunting smile, feeling his manhood squish beneath my stiletto boots, impressed by how casual my voice sounds.

  He scrapes his white teeth over his bottom lip. “You’re probably right.” He exhales, holding my gaze, his voice sounding lower than it did a moment ago. “I’m terrible in bed. Barely know what I’m doing.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I’m practically a virgin.”

  I slow my breathing, like it’s possible to get a contact high from the vortex of sexual energy swirling the air around us.

  Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

  “Exactly.” I roll onto my back, needing to break eye contact before I’m completely sucked in.

  Seeing yesterday’s bottle of Sprite on the nightstand, I grab for it and coat my dry mouth in the now-flat syrupy sweetness.

  My eyes flicker to the door. A little voice in my head screams at me to get up and run through it while I still can.

  Instead, I set the bottle down and stretch my neck and arms, focusing on my aching muscles and not the fact that Ben smells like Downey and testosterone, which for some freaking reason is making me want to straddle his hips.

  I retake my hand-propped position, meeting his penetrating gaze. The little voice may or may not call me an asshat for staying. And I may or may not agree with it.

  “You definitely wouldn’t scream my name.” His are words light and airy, but they sit heavy between us. “Definitely not.”

  Great. Now that’s all I can think about. Me screaming his name. It’s like a shot of lust in my veins, which pisses me off.

  “Well, it takes a big man to admit his shortcomings. I’m proud of you.” I give him a patronizingly sweet smile, even as an intense ache pulls my body like a rubber band waiting to snap. “I’m sure you’ll find a girl who will love you for you.”

  He grins. “I don’t know, Shortcake. I’m kind of an asshole.”

  “Some girls like assholes. They’re usually the crazy ones with daddy issues, but I’m sure you’ll find your forever person.”

  “Daddy issues?” he chuckles.

  “Yep.”

  “Sounds fun.” Humor crinkles the corner of his eyes.

  Just as I’m about force my legs to get onboard and carry me far away from Ben and his sexy morning voice and man-beard, an unexpected knock on the door crashes through the quiet room like a wrecking ball, prompting a startled shriek from my throat.

  Ben grips my waist, pulling my side snug to his solid front, like I’m naked and he’s keeping me from view.

  He turns his head and barks over his shoulder, “What?”

  His chest vibrates with the question.

  My eyes flash wide, and I take in a quick breath, feeling lightheaded by the sudden and sharp lust zinging through my body. I can barely register Jesse’s muffled voice on the other side of the door, but I think he says something about keys to borrow the bike. But he could be singing The Jeffersons’ theme song for all I know because at this moment:

  All I can see is Ben.

  All I can feel is Ben.

  All I can smell is Ben.

  This man is my archnemesis, and yet the feel of him, with his massive arm slung over my body and his unrelenting grip on the curve of my waist, sets my body on fire. My stomach flutters as I take in the line of his sharp profile, the vein in his neck, down to the dark hair dusting his chest.

  The urge to pull him on top of me and wrap my legs around him grows with each breath. I want to run my cheek along his beard and take his full bottom lip between my teeth.


  I want Benjamin Crawford.

  It’s more than just wanting sex.

  It’s not me, it’s him.

  I have a crush on Benjamin Crawford.

  Benjamin. Fucking. Crawford.

  He turns his head from the door. His heated gaze instantly finds mine. I don’t know what he sees on my face, but his jaw ticks and his fingers on my waist flex.

  Something dangerous is in the air, something that I should run from, but instead I’m drawn to it.

  I want to say something to break the moment, but only a trembling breath escapes my lips. His eyes darken as they slide to my mouth, and I wonder if he can feel the stampede of wild horses in my chest.

  “Sorry, about that—it’s a reflex,” he says, his voice low and thick. His hand is still gripping my hip. Is he moving closer? Or maybe I’m floating. It feels like I’m floating.

  “It’s okay,” I say, my fingers still pressed into his hard bicep. My eyes flicker to his full lips surrounded by dark beard. “You’re probably handy in an emergency.” Yeah, I just said that.

  He gives me a smooth chuckle that shoots an erotic pulse through my body. Our gazes lock for a breath. Then he slowly bends down—oh, shit, he’s going to kiss me—and gently brushes and bumps his nose against mine. Wait. What?

  “You’re cute,” he says, hovering over my lips.

  And with that, he pushes from me and stands from the bed, his warm body replaced by cold emptiness.

  I’m cute? Like Eskimo-kiss cute.

  I sit up feeling dizzy. Ben just Eskimo kissed me.

  And then he called me cute. Cute.

  I watch as he casually pulls open a drawer and grabs clothes. One thing is obvious, he’s totally unaffected by me. I can hardly breathe let alone move while he’s picking out freaking clothes for the day. His way of letting me know he’s in control.

  Another checkmate.

  I’ve never felt like the sexiest girl in the world, but I never felt like the unsexiest either, until now. Until Ben.