Instacrush (A Rookie Rebels Novel)

by Kate Meader

  Irritation flared. “I don’t. I’m merely trying to halt the strange man invading my home.” Slightly hyperbolic, but he’d caught her on the back foot.

  He clutched his chest. “That hurts, Cupcake. Neighbors can’t be strangers. You’ve lived here for over six weeks now.”

  Eight, actually, and not for much longer. The question was whether she wanted to stay in Chicago. Right now, it seemed as good a place as any to lay low and escape the grasping hooks of her family, especially as she had a job and a couple of friends in Hunt and his girlfriend, ace sports reporter, Jordan.

  Ensuring her eyes remained north of the action, she folded her arms. “Can I help you?” She held up a hand immediately to forestall whatever smart-ass comment was coming next. Better rephrase. “Why are you here?”

  “I locked myself out.”

  “Let me guess. One of your honeys left her underwear and you had to chase her down?” She’d never actually seen any women visiting his apartment, but belligerence was her default in Kershaw’s presence and the wheels had been set in motion.

  “That would be no. My intercom buzzer doesn’t work and I had to run down to let the delivery guy in because there’s no way I’m allowing someone to steal my package.”

  That almost made her laugh because “my package” was just perfect.

  “And this is my problem how?”

  “Hunt has my spare key.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I—” He ran a hand through his damp hair and she was oddly jealous of that hand. What was wrong with her? “You know what?” he went on. “I tried to say so, but you were too busy feeling me up to let me get a word in.”

  “That was an accident,” she grated, feeling a pang of guilt because he had a point.

  “Tell it to the judge. So you’re not going home for the holidays?”

  She jerked at the sudden subject change, or maybe it was the mention of home. Not wanting to sound like a sad sack, she responded with a white lie. “Sure. Tomorrow.” It wasn’t completely inaccurate. Levi’s apartment felt like home anyway.

  Though she knew Theo was heading home with his wrapped gifts for grandma, he didn’t know she knew, so she asked the obligatory, “You?”

  “Yep. Saugatuck.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Michigan. Of course, that’s dependent on me getting into my apartment because I sure as hell can’t drive home in a towel. Just think of the looks I’d get!” He grinned, which made her smile. That was kind of funny.

  Not enjoying the sudden burst of camaraderie, she sought hormone-suppressing focus. Warm fuzzies, especially in relation to a body like Theo’s, made her nervous.

  “Where’s the spare key?” She walked by him as she asked, careful to avoid any accidental towel-snags. This was all a little too makings-of-a-porn-movie clichéd.

  “No idea.”

  She whipped around. “But I don’t know where it is.”

  “Then you’ll have to text Hunt and ask him.”

  Order dispensed, he walked by her into the kitchen where he opened the fridge and started rummaging around. “Got any of that—there you are, my beauty!” Out came her Gouda cheese, her fresh deli turkey slices, and her wheat bread.

  Anger bubbled beneath the surface at his presumption. “I guess I’ll text Hunt, then.”

  “Thanks, Cupcake.” With his back to her, he gave an ass twitch. She was being thanked by his ass!

  Damn, it was fine, though. This guy could represent backsides for his country.

  Text. Hunt. Now.

  She shot off a message. Thirty seconds of watching Theo make a sandwich—okay, watching his fine towel-shod glutes, which she gladly took as her due for the “borrowed” sandwich fixins—and Hunt had not replied.

  “Maybe he’s not near his phone.”

  “Probably giving it good to his lady.” He turned, the sandwich already in his mouth. After a decent chew, he eyed her over the crust. “Maybe he’ll take his time. He’s the kind of guy who probably thinks it’s bad manners to get off without giving his woman three orgasms first.”

  “Unlike you, I suppose, who wouldn’t want to spend so much time away from the fridge.”

  “I do like to eat,” he said, passing over her snark. He was definitely one of those “water off a duck’s back” types.

  She looked at her phone. Nothing from Hunt.

  How long was she supposed to stand here, gazing at Theo Kershaw’s naked chest when all that separated her from a peek-a-boo at the goods was that loosely-knotted towel? Anxious for something to occupy her itchy hands and overactive imagination, she walked to the nearest drawer and yanked it open.

  “Maybe he put the key here.” Take-out menus, duct tape, assorted screws. They could have themselves quite the party …

  “Maybe it’s in his bedroom,” Theo offered.

  She didn’t relish the idea of going into Hunt’s private space. He’d been really good about giving her room and she repaid the favor by staying out of his way, even working double-shifts at the bar so she could pad her oh-shit fund.

  No incoming messages arrived to save her.

  Theo remained unusually quiet while finishing his sandwich along with a glass of OJ he’d helped himself to.

  “That was my juice, by the way.”

  “I’ll pay you back.” He eyed the open drawer. “No luck with the key?”

  “No. And Hunt’s not texting back.” She threw a glance toward the main door to the apartment.

  “Think I could borrow some sweats from Hunt?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You’re in here eating our food and drinking my OJ and generally making yourself at home. But wearing Hunt’s clothes is probably not part of the neighbor contract.”

  Was it possible she wanted him to remain in that towel? No. She was just protective of Hunt’s turf. That was all. She looked away, not wanting to be caught staring at his half-nakedness, imagining all the things she couldn’t have because a guy this hot wouldn’t deign to lower himself to her level. Stay in her dreams, please.

  “You okay? You’re acting kind of weird.” He stared at her for a long, penetrating second. There was something almost knowing about that gaze, which was strange with a guy who seemed to have no reflective capabilities whatsoever. That towel, though. She swore it was slung lower on his hips than before. Never had her brain and hormones been so ready to duke it out.

  Slip that knot, sexy towel.

  Don’t even think about it, terrycloth terrorist!

  The hormones were winning.

  “I’m fine.” She checked her phone again. Nada.

  “You sure, Elle-oh-Elle?”

  “Yes!”

  He moved toward her, slowly, a swagger to his hips, and she held her breath, uncertain what she would do if he touched her. Ohgodohgodohgod.

  He walked right past her. Phew, right?

  Much too close for comfort and enough to have her sex antenna go zing. Clean, fresh man. No better scent. He headed to the door and a small—very small—voice in her head cried out in protest. Don’t leave.

  He left.

  And returned.

  With a large box that was taped up so well that it would require a chainsaw to get through it. Tons of stickers blanketed it—Christmas trees, pink hearts, Pokemon, My Little Pony, and every emoji known to man.

  “Someone went nuts at the craft store,” she commented.

  Theo placed it on Hunt’s coffee table. “From my gran.”

  She liked how his voice softened at the mention. “And this is the package you needed so badly you locked yourself out.” In a towel. Let’s not forget the specifics.

  “This is it.”

  They both stared at the package.

  “The best brownies you’ll ever eat,” he added.

  “I’ve eaten my fair share of brownies so that’s quite the claim.”

  He took a seat on the sofa. “So you want to try my … sweet treats?”
<
br />   Okay, time they had this out. “What’s your game?”

  He blinked. “My game?”

  “You always seem to be so … on. Is this how you talk to every woman of your acquaintance? ’Cause it must be exhausting for you.” She didn’t believe for a second that he was actually interested in her. The Theo Kershaws of this world would never go there but his flirtatious nature stretched her nerves taut.

  “I’m just a chatty person. I’ve always been but especially since—” Something flickered across his expression. “It’s called being friendly, Cupcake. You ought to try it sometime.”

  She wished her thoughts about Theo Kershaw would stay in the realm of friendly. “Maybe tone it down.”

  “It?” He leaned back, one strong, muscled arm over the top of the sofa, which showed to perfection his beautiful pecs, toned abs, and a strangely attractive tuft of underarm hair. “Are we talking about my unrelenting charisma and incalculable sex appeal? You realize I’m in my prime, sitting in a towel on your sofa, offering you homemade brownies, and you expect me to tone all that down?”

  Maybe it was too much of an ask. “I’ll find you a sweater.”

  3

  Theo stared at Elle’s departing back, liking that her exit gave him leave to do that uninhibited. Full-figured, with more curves than a stash of hockey blades, she was taller than most women he usually encountered, maybe a couple of inches short of six feet. Her chestnut hair, pinned in a messy knot atop her head, gave the impression of someone at ease with herself and the world around her.

  But it was merely a cover. Those blue-gray eyes of hers carried the weight of that world, while the stubborn set to her jaw signaled a lifetime of disagreements with whatever man or woman might be willing to match her tart tongue. Elle Butler was a serious person with a smart mouth. She had a sense of humor, all right, just not when it came to him.

  He liked her, though she clearly didn’t return the sentiment. What kind of person didn’t enjoy a friendly neighbor? Most people got upset if someone didn’t like them, but Theo had plenty of people who considered him awesome. When one didn’t jump on board the Theo train, it excited his interest. It was more fun trying to puzzle out his neighbor.

  He wandered back into the kitchen to look for scissors. If he couldn’t be dressed, at least he could be sated. Brownie-sated.

  He’d like to be sexually sated though.

  Despite his claims to be in his prime, Theo wasn’t feeling quite the king of all he surveyed lately. He’d only felt “normal” for the last six months after eighteen months of being locked in the body of someone else. Learning to hold a knife and fork again, move a mouse (hell on his porn viewing), even getting dressed, had all taken a toll on his time and mental fortitude. Thankfully his speech hadn’t been affected by the aneurysm rupture and subsequent surgery, but his mind had. It ran a million miles a minute, only resting when he slept—and he couldn’t sleep for longer than a few hours at a time. He’d always been hyper but since his brain exploded, he was hyper squared. And strangely lacking in confidence when it came to women.

  He had no shortage of offers. But he didn’t feel ready to dip his toes back into the sexual shark-infested waters yet. Except … he might make an exception for Elle which was pretty screwed up because she would certainly not be making an exception for him.

  In the kitchen, he opened a drawer of flatware and found scissors. Then he headed out to the package and attacked it.

  Thank God for Aurora. Or Saint Aurora, because his grandmother had nursed him back to health in Saugatuck. He couldn’t imagine anyone else stepping up, though there was someone more obvious who could have. Dear old Dad. Theo wasn’t given to self-pitying sarcasm, even in his head, so he was annoyed as hell when that unlikely voice popped in for a visit. He stabbed the package with a bit more force than necessary.

  “Hey, watch the brownies!”

  Elle stood at the entrance to living room, her brow in its default setting: furrowed.

  “Yeah, I know. Must protect the sweet treats.” He schooled his expression, drawing on years of ignoring whatever might bother him. He cut through the tape sealing the box.

  Before he could get further, a soft ball of cotton fabric landed on top of the box.

  He held it up. “What’s this?”

  “It should cover up all that.”

  All that. So his near nakedness did bother her, and he was fairly sure it wasn’t because she was a prude. Still got it, Kershaw.

  He put down the scissors and held up what she’d given him: a tee with a picture of the captain from Star Trek. Bald, British, and badass. Beneath his cue ball head, crinkly blues, and smirky-hot grin (he assumed that was what @SirPatStew was going for) was the slogan: Tea, Earl Grey, hot.

  Weird for a catchphrase, but those Trekkies were even more rabid than hockey fans.

  He checked the tag. Large. But for a lady?

  “This is big on you?”

  “Sure.” She grinned, a little evilly.

  He shouldn’t like that because he was probably the butt of a joke, but he did all the same. Better to view it as a weakness on her part: she wanted to see him in a muscle shirt that highlighted his superior physique. Joke was on her! Theo was never afraid of looking stupid or gorgeous. People expected him to display epic doofus qualities and he found it tended to get him further in life.

  He put the shirt on. As he suspected, it was tight and had more of a crop-top look to it, meaning his abs were getting plenty of air. Perfect.

  “Any pants?”

  “You’ll have to stick with the towel until we hear from Hunt.”

  “Knew you dug it.”

  Slight head shake. Sah-weet.

  “Ready for a brownie?”

  “I’m ready to test your claims to having the best brownie ever created.”

  He extracted the lipstick-blotted note Aurora had written, knowing the contents without needing to unfold it (I’m so proud of you, Theo, and other rah-rah encouragements. The woman was a fucking treasure) and put it to one side, then took out a giant Tupperware box. Placing the lid under Elle’s snooty nose, he popped the corner so she got all that sugary, chocolate goodness first.

  Theo Kershaw, giver in the extreme.

  “It does smell good,” she said with just the right amount of skepticism.

  He unsealed the lid and offered the box to her, filled with an assortment of half double-chocolate, half cream-cheese swirl, as well as classic chocolate. “Have one of my gran’s brownies, Elle-oh-Elle.”

  She smiled, bit her lip, and wow, that was something special. His pulse skipped a few beats, then thundered hard when it found its rhythm again. Plucking out one of the classics, she examined it and took a tentative bite.

  “Oh,” she said around her chewing.

  “Oh?”

  “That’s …”

  “That’s …?”

  “Absolutely amazing!” She took another bite, bigger this time. Shaking her head, she turned back to him, her eyes wide and lust-stoked … for the brownie. A boy could dream. “Your grandmother made these? She ought to sell them.”

  “She gives them away at the gallery.”

  “The gallery?”

  “Yeah, the art gallery she owns back home in Saugatuck.”

  Elle looked taken aback. “Your grandmother owns an art gallery?”

  He folded his arms across the Star Trek captain’s bald head, stretched to thread-snapping limits by his pecs. “Yep. She’s a pretty cool lady who marches to the beat of her own bongo. You’d like her.” She’d like you.

  “And Saugatuck? That’s where you’re going for the holiday?”

  “Yeah.” He bit into a brownie. “These treats are actually for the team. I was supposed to drop them off at the player lounge before everyone flew out but Aurora—that’s my gran—sent them late. So where are you headed tomorrow?”

  She frowned, paused for a moment, then proceeded to lie her ass off. “New York. Flying out in the morning. Super early.”

>   Huh, what was that about? Was she lying about the location, the flight time, or the fact that she was going at all?

  “Who’s at home, waiting for Sergeant Cupcake?”

  “Mom, Dad, sister. And you? Just your art-loving, brownie-baking grandma?”

  Whiplash on the subject change there, making it clear she didn’t want to talk about her folks. Fair enough. He could talk enough for both of them.

  “Yeah, but she’s got a ton of friends who are like aunts, I guess. Theo’s Tarts.”

  Another brow furrow. “Theo’s what?”

  “They’re my grandmother’s friends, kind of like her posse.”

  “Your grandmother has a posse? Called Theo’s Tarts?”

  He laughed. “I didn’t give them that name! Once a month, they come up to the city to watch a game. They wear jackets with my face on them and generally embarrass everyone within a twenty-row radius. These women are raucous. But hey, they’re my biggest fans.”

  Who couldn’t love a troupe of ladies of a certain age swearing like sailors, putting the fear of Gretzky into grown men, and telling the officials how to do their jobs? “Anyway, they’ll be at my gran’s for Christmas dinner and they’ll probably have a highlight reel of my best moments since the season began. It’s an event whenever I go home.”

  She looked a touch wistful—and for the briefest moment, sad. “Saugatuck’s favorite son.”

  “Less than a thousand people so it wouldn’t be hard.”

  She smiled at him again, the rarity of it so unusual that his breath caught once more. Her phone buzzed. “That’ll be Hunt.” She looked at it, frowned, then turned the phone over. “Not him.”

  He could say he was disappointed but that’d be a big old whopper. Sitting in a too-tight Jean Luc Picard tee and a towel, eating Aurora’s brownies, and chatting with Elle Butler was actually a very pleasant way to spend an hour.

  “So, if Hunt doesn’t call, I may have to stay here.”

  “Oh, he’ll call. And if he doesn’t, then we’ll get a hold of the landlord.” Was that trepidation he heard in her voice? He knew she wasn’t afraid of him harming her, and she sure as hell wouldn’t be acting like this because she hated listening to him, which left one possible conclusion: she was worried she couldn’t keep her hands off him.