by Lindsey Hart
Suddenly, I feel like the worst asshole. “No. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t anything. I just wanted to get your attention. I wanted to talk, and I didn’t know how else to do it.”
“Well, you just open and close your mouth. Like you’re doing now.”
“Fair enough. I guess I should have said that I didn’t know how to start a conversation, given that you seem to be very set on hating me.”
“You could just accept that and leave me alone.”
“That’s the problem. I’m quite persistent when I want something.”
“I’m sure you are.”
I let out a loud sigh. “You have to help me out here. I have no idea what I said last night to make you leave. I have no idea what I did. I—if you hadn’t come in here last night, I wouldn’t have made the first move. I’m very…”
“Assholish?”
“I was going for shy. Or that I respect boundaries. I think those are a little more fitting.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
A little more pink shows on her cheeks, but I have no idea what that means. She’s doing a remarkable job of closing herself off now. “You know why I left last night.”
“I really don’t.”
“Because you’re clueless.”
“I’m not going to argue with that, but because I am clueless, why don’t you enlighten me?”
Her jaw juts out stubbornly. Just when I’m sure she’s not going to, she gives me a wrathful look and launches into the wildest explanation I’ve heard in a while.
“Because you’re a player. You’re the kind of guy who just moves on from woman to woman, and I—well—you’re hot. Okay, I mean, that’s obvious. You have eyes. Everyone has eyes. You know you’re walking, living, breathing sex. You know you look good. You know you have an ass of titanium. You—you know all of those things, and I’m sure you’re proud of them. It’s so obvious. Hot guys are always jerks. I should just know that by now. Ugh. If anyone is to blame, it’s clearly me, for being so stupid.”
I’m floored. I sit there stupidly, not making a sound. We have a good old-fashioned stare down, the jar of pickles between us. Titanium ass. That’s a level up from steel. So, Cassie is attracted to me, or something close to that. I figured she was, but last night was such a wild ride—not the kind of wild ride either of us apparently had in mind either—that I actually wasn’t sure what the heck was going on. I’m a guy. At the best of times, I’m sure I’m not overly intuitive.
“I—I don’t know what to say,” I admit. “You said last night that you thought I’d be an asshole. I can’t help the genetics my parents gave me—”
“That’s something a true asshole would say.”
I fight the twitch of my lips. This really isn’t funny. Or maybe it’s so sad that it is funny. I haven’t decided yet. I need time to try and process this. “You know, you might want to re-think that one. I can’t prove to you that I’m not a player unless you want to call up my friends and my parents. Maybe my brother and sister too. They can vouch for me. I’ve had two long term relationships, both after college, because before that, I wanted to focus. I may have made a few mistakes along the way, in high school, but that was a long time ago, and I never treated anyone badly. I was actually the one who got dumped. Every. Single. Time.”
“You’re lying.” Cassie looks uncertain, though.
“I’m not. I haven’t had a date in years since I was too focused on work. It’s one of the reasons I quit my last job. I wanted to do something different. Something I actually enjoyed. I didn’t want my work to be my entire life. There is something I want to do, one day, and sitting in an office all day, every day, year in and year out, isn’t it.”
“You—but you said—you said you wanted to wake up to something fresh, try new things.”
“That doesn’t include women,” I respond dryly. “If I wanted to just have a once and done, I would have said that.”
“What’s a once and—oh.” Cassie’s face colors again. “You know, that’s usually called a one-night stand.”
“I’m not interested in that.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “You could have just asked me. I was talking about life in general. I didn’t mean it to refer to relationships of any kind. I don’t treat people like they’re disposable. I might have my parents to thank for my titanium ass, but I have a heart. I’ll give you my mom’s number. You can ask her. Also, ask her what will happen if I do ever decide to treat people like that. Ask her what she will do to me.”
“What? Get out her wooden spoon or take you by the ear?”
“Don’t underestimate my mom’s wooden spoons. She has the old school kind, the big ones that are larger than a fist. And never, ever underestimate the sting of a fly swatter.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am. And I’m not saying we didn’t deserve it. The metal handle stings like a real bitch, you know that?”
“But you’re—you’re so…perfect,” Cassie spits out. “No, not like that. Frick. I mean, you’re like—uh…”
“I get it.” I arch a brow and stare at the pickles. “Now that we have that cleared up, and I hope you choose to believe me because I am not interested in your body. I mean…” Fuck. Of course, I always have to mess up what I’m trying to say. “I mean, I am. But it’s not just that. I thought asking you to have dinner with me last night after you slammed a door in my face with the force of a person three times your size made it clear I wasn’t just interested in…” Could I make a bigger mess of this? “I want to get to know you. I don’t have shitty intentions. I would never use you like that. And no, not just because we work together, and I can’t just up and ghost you after. I’m serious.”
“Dinner usually means something else.” Cassie frowns and crosses her arms. It’s not quite the reaction I expected. I can tell she’s still skeptical, and I get it. I’m not much more than a stranger at this point. She looks like she’s trying to figure out if I’m just selling her another toilet full of shit that she needs to wade through to plunge.
“Let me prove it to you. If you want to, I’d like to make you dinner.” Fuck, she just said dinner usually means something else. Thank you, blue balls, for letting my brain function at such an optimal level. If you don’t get any action anytime soon, it’s your own fault. Great. Now I’m having a private conversation with my balls. “Not that kind of dinner,” I stammer. “This is just a dinner that really is a dinner. With food. Normal food. Uh—at a table.”
Now, I have her attention. She keeps her arms crossed, but she can’t hide her surprise. My balls let up on the blood and oxygen just a little, and I’m glad I’m sitting down, hidden behind the edge of the desk, because my dick is literally trying to break free to give the air a fist punch.
“My place? Tonight at seven? I’ll bring the jar of pickles. They actually look pretty good.” I’m probably the asshole Cassie thinks I am because I punctuate that with my most charming grin. It’s worked for me in the past. I can’t say I’ll do it if I wasn’t desperate.
“You’re actually going to cook?”
“I am. I’ll do it right in front of you if you want to come at six, so you’ll know I did it and didn’t just cheat and get takeout.”
“I’m not that easily fooled.” She rolls her eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s going to say no since she still looks totally pissed off at me, but it’s her turn to surprise me. “Fine. I—just—fine. What do you want me to bring? Dessert?”
“You don’t have to bring anything.”
“Fine.” It’s clearly her new favorite word, and since she’s trying to still look pissed off even though I don’t think she truly is, she’s absolutely adorable repeating it. She uncrosses her arms and swoops over my desk, grabbing the jar. “But you’ll have to get your own pickles. These ones are mine.”
I don’t allow myself a grin—and it is a full-on, pickle eating grin—until she basically slams my office door behind her. Then, it takes all of two se
conds for the panic to set in after that. I might be good at quite a few things, but cooking isn’t one of them.
Apparently, trying to charm my coworker isn’t very high up on that list, either.
CHAPTER 12
Cassie
I have no idea why I’m here. At his house, doing my best not to appear nervous or sweaty, when in reality, I’m both of those things. I barely refrain from raising my arm and trying to bring my face close to the pit area to make sure I don’t smell weird. Okay, so apparently, I’m a wreck.
I have no idea why I’m wearing a dress I’d term so-so, which is code for somewhere in between something fancy and jeans. I hurried to get home after work and basically spent the entire time rushing around, emptying my closet and throwing clothes all over my bed and the floor in disgust.
I have no idea why I actually tried to put on some makeup. It was a disaster, and I ended up just washing it all off and settling for a light layer of mascara and some tinted lip balm like I normally do.
I have no idea why I just drove like a crazy person to try and be on time since I took too long with the clothes and the makeup.
I have no idea why I took the stupid jar of pickles home and put it on the kitchen counter like a freaking prize I should be proud of.
Actually, I do have an idea. I do know why I’m here. I do know why I went through my closet like an angry tornado. I know why I made a horrible attempt at makeup, and I know why I wanted to be on time. I know all about the pickles. It all boils down to one horrible, simple fact. I want Johnathan Thatcher’s pickle. Which is wrong. And horrible. And ridiculous. And…and a thousand other things that aren’t good.
I’m seriously debating turning around and running back to the car, but then the door opens like John was waiting and watching for me, and now I’m trapped. A cloud of bluish-grey smoke drifts out the door behind him, but I’m too busy staring at him to pay attention to it. He’s in jeans. Jeans. Jeans that are stupidly hot on him. And a t-shirt.
I’m one of those women who thinks a guy is hotter in casual clothes than he is in a suit, because—because seriously. I think John could sway the opinion of every single suit-loving woman out there. Whatever brand the clothing is, I should write to the company and inform them what a service John is doing by wearing their stuff. They should be paying him to be an influencer or put him in an ad. Whatever he’s selling, I’m buying.
I feel like I’ve sunk to a brand new low, and this is coming from someone who had poop and pickle particles spattered all over her face a few days ago.
“Um—there seems to be some—uh—smoke…” I finally realize I should say something—something that doesn’t give away the fact that I’m basically standing here and rehashing pornographic thoughts in my head.
John curses, glances behind him, and runs. He takes off, leaving the door open. I could run too. In the opposite direction, but I’ll have to see him at work. It’s exactly why I shouldn’t be here.
I step inside and close the door behind me.
John’s house is a bungalow as well. Bright yellow with a waist-high concrete block fence around it. His yard is nicely landscaped with a few shrubs and smaller palms, and his grass is actually green, which must mean he has an underground sprinkler system or a lot of free time on his hands.
The house, like the rest of the houses in the neighborhood, seems to have been built in the seventies, but it’s been updated inside with new hardwood floors and grey walls. I think a few have been taken out here and there since the floor plans aren’t normally so open, but John’s is. His living room opens right into the kitchen area.
“I’m sorry,” John says as he rushes back into the room. He runs to the large living room window and slides it open. There’s another smaller one behind the couch at the far side of the room, and he gets that one open in record time. Since it involves him bending over, and those jeans are worn in just right in the titanium buns area—no, I can’t believe I actually said that to him out loud—I’m treated to a nice view.
I slide off my flats while John strides to the kitchen. He cranks the window above the sink open and tackles the sliding door next. A rush of warm, wet Miami air rushes into the house, but some of the smoke does start clearing out.
“What are you making?” I try to peer at the stove, but the frying pan is still smoking wildly, and it’s hard to actually see anything. There are two other pots. One is bubbling over, and the other looks like it’s about to. “Do you want help?”
“Nope. That’s fine.” John looks flustered. He points to a small table, one of those antique drop leaf kinds with the fancy pedestal bottom. There’s a white tablecloth with embroidered flowers on it. “You can have a seat. I have things under control.”
I bite down on my bottom lip and turn so he can’t see my smirk. Okay, it is also so he can’t see my blush. Seeing John makes me feel flustered because he’s freaking hot when he’s flushed and a little rumpled. My blood pressure is spiking, and it is not from smoke inhalation.
I pull out a matching wood antique chair and slide into it. The seat is a dusty pink. I’m pretty sure this set belongs to someone else because, for some reason, I can’t see John owning it. Maybe he did pick it out. I’ll have to ask him if he’s partial to pink. Not that there’s anything wrong with pink. Guys are allowed to like pink, and I actually find it adorable. I’m wearing a soft pink sundress myself.
All I can smell is thick, acrid smoke. It’s nearly eye-watering. I don’t say anything as John rushes around the kitchen. His kitchen is average-sized. It’s U-shaped, with the stove on one end, the sink on the other, a bank of cupboards in between, and an island at the center. After setting out the plates, John puts something that resembles charcoal onto them.
I don’t say anything when John sets our plates down on the table. He’s set a candle there, one of those ones in a jar. It smells horrible combined with the smoke, but I don’t say anything. At least all that stench in here is masking my own stench. Not that I know if I stink for sure. I did put on a hefty amount of deodorant before I came. I am sweating, though, since I’m so nervous, and I’m extremely paranoid about it.
What the heck am I even doing here?
I wish I could blame this on my friends’ teasing pushing me over the brink, but I know those texts have nothing to do with it. They are right about it being a long time. Let’s just say I got bucked off a very mean horse that I thought was a nice horse a few years ago. I also had the pleasure of having the same experience a year and a half ago, and I haven’t exactly gotten back in the saddle. I think all the usual riding puns apply here.
Honestly, sitting here doesn’t exactly feel right, but it doesn’t feel wrong either. My heart is beating wildly, and it’s giving me fresh bursts of adrenaline, which makes me braver than I normally am. Kind of like when I barged into John’s office and locked the door. And when I went out for dinner with him. I’m taking a risk, and it feels dangerous and thrilling, which makes me feel alive. Feeling alive is scary. Feeling alive is something I don’t really know how to do very well. I just hope this isn’t a three-strike deal. Maybe I’m beyond that. If I count up all our mishaps the past two weeks, I think I’m way past three strikes, but I’m still here. That says something, but I’m just scared to ask what.
“Umm…it looks great.” I stare down at the charred things on the plate. I’m not any closer to identifying what they are now that they’re only a few inches away than I was when they were on the stove.
“Bacon-wrapped scallops, potatoes, and dill carrots,” John states proudly. He picks up his fork and takes a bite of one of the larger black lumps.
I watch as he chews. His jaw is working, but he doesn’t swallow. A second later, he grabs the napkin at the side of his plate, and I can tell he spit out whatever he put in his mouth. He’s pretty much scarlet now.
Which is really sexy.
And he smells good. Right through the smoke and candle. His eyes are twinkling. He’s laughing at himself without making a soun
d, and it’s pretty hot too.
“I think we should order takeout,” he laughs, pushing his plate away.
I suddenly feel bad. “No, I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Don’t even think about trying it.” John stands, snatches my plate up with his, and sets them both on the counter. He slides his phone out of his jeans pocket. “So?” One brow arches. “Pizza or pasta? Or maybe tacos. I haven’t had tacos in forever.”
I stand slowly and shrug. I’m leaning towards tacos, but that makes me think about my taco and John’s fingers on my taco, and his tongue on my taco, and his pickle doing amazing things to my taco. Now my freshly waxed taco is doing some pretty wild things, and it obviously makes me stupid because I blurt something completely out of character.
“You could just have me.”
The kitchen goes totally silent. Not that there was much noise before, but it’s like even the hum of the appliances suddenly stops. I slap a hand over my mouth in horror. John stares at me with his mouth parted in disbelief. I stare at him. Neither of us blinks. Suddenly, we both move at the same time.
We come together violently, a tangle of limbs and hands and lips. He kisses me ferociously, and I kiss him back. His lips are heaven, moving against mine. His hands are on my arms, my breasts, my waist. They’re everywhere, starting little fires that become big fires that become a roar that drowns everything else out. His tongue sweeps over my bottom lip, and my tongue slides over his tongue. Our teeth clash a little before his tongue is sliding over my tongue in my mouth.
He picks me up, still kissing the breath right out of me, walks over a few steps, and sets me down on the edge of the table. I mentioned the thing is antique, well, there’s a terrible cracking sound from underneath me, and it starts to sway.
“Shit!” John grabs my hips. He lifts me effortlessly, and I lock my legs around his waist.