plenty of drama and no commitment. The former he’d never liked, and the latter—well, she’d changed that, hadn’t she?
She wagged a pert finger. “I’m letting your breach of the man-woman contract slide solely because I owed you for jumping to conclusions.”
“This is where I take a mile, then? What about”—tapping his chin in master-villain mode, he hummed, ta-da —“a not-a-date?”
“Are you inviting me to fuck in your tiny car?” Cheeks rounding with a smile, she tipped her chin toward his groin. “You’re packing a hefty tool. Could be a tight squeeze.”
Annnd the pressure at his fly returned. Better divert her from the subject of fucking before his pants split. “Softball.”
“That’s a date.” She tripped over him with her answer, so fast she must’ve been coded in an automatic loop.
“That’s not a date.” Lie. Bringing her to the game absolutely would be a date. “That’s catching lazy pop flies and drinking beers from a cooler on a Saturday afternoon.” Not a classic date where he bought dinner and she surrendered her body, but the kind where his quasi-family vetted the woman he’d chosen and she experienced the sort of life he’d offer. “Like forty, fifty people. You don’t want to spend time with me, you’ll have plenty of folks to choose from.”
Hell, softball had worked for Rob. Why not him?
Stalking back and forth in front of appliance-laden white metal shelves, she lacked only a cat’s tail twitching. Long silences and sidelong glances she managed fine. As she rocked to a stop, she swiped her knuckles across her forehead. “We take separate cars, and if you introduce me to a single, solitary person as your date or your girlfriend, I walk.”
Holy fucking shit, she’d delivered a yes. Negotiating terms, not the date itself, because that was a yes. Green light on Operation Real Relationship with Katherine. A prelude to permission for waking up beside her, watching her eyelids flutter as she dreamed. Arousing her with kisses down her gently sloping nose to the rounded tip. Planting one on her sweetheart lips and nibbling to his heart’s content.
She coughed. “Unless you don’t want—”
“Nope, nope, I want.” Christ Jesus. Standing here daydreaming while the woman at the center of his fantasies waited for his reply. Hell of a showing. “I’ll text you details, and I’ll tell everyone you’re a stranger who followed me to alert me my taillight’s out.”
She laughed, thank God. Sweet and low, wrapping him in love-fog, the same substance that must’ve addled Rob’s brains last summer. He hadn’t warned the stuff would be so damn addictive. But maybe every man had to figure that one for himself.
* * * *
Rattling off her number, she rushed him out the door. Any more of Prince Charming’s temptations tonight, and she’d start calling him the devil. As he swaggered out of view, he left behind an uncommon vacancy. The strange pull demanded more than his dick, though she wouldn’t scrape a healthy serving of that off her plate, either.
With the sign flipped to Closed , she rested against the door and replayed the best five minutes of her day. Well, maybe seven minutes. The notion of timing him had flown away as soon as he’d spun her toward the wall.
The way he took control—no guy won that concession from her. Maybe the difference accounted for the surge of something-ness urging her to see him again. Micromanaged, most one-nighters got the job done, but the satisfaction dissipated in the final few climactic shudders. With Brian, the buzzing high had driven her toward more dangerous games. Grabbing his ass while her customer waited out front. Fuck, she’d lost her mind. His damn fault.
By the time she got the shop closed up and the mixer waiting in the back fixed, she’d be late for dinner again. Hung-up, moony-eyed girlfriends depended on a man to keep them company. She’d finish up on her own and like it, dammit. And stop fucking jumping
She wagged a pert finger. “I’m letting your breach of the man-woman contract slide solely because I owed you for jumping to conclusions.”
“This is where I take a mile, then? What about”—tapping his chin in master-villain mode, he hummed, ta-da —“a not-a-date?”
“Are you inviting me to fuck in your tiny car?” Cheeks rounding with a smile, she tipped her chin toward his groin. “You’re packing a hefty tool. Could be a tight squeeze.”
Annnd the pressure at his fly returned. Better divert her from the subject of fucking before his pants split. “Softball.”
“That’s a date.” She tripped over him with her answer, so fast she must’ve been coded in an automatic loop.
“That’s not a date.” Lie. Bringing her to the game absolutely would be a date. “That’s catching lazy pop flies and drinking beers from a cooler on a Saturday afternoon.” Not a classic date where he bought dinner and she surrendered her body, but the kind where his quasi-family vetted the woman he’d chosen and she experienced the sort of life he’d offer. “Like forty, fifty people. You don’t want to spend time with me, you’ll have plenty of folks to choose from.”
Hell, softball had worked for Rob. Why not him?
Stalking back and forth in front of appliance-laden white metal shelves, she lacked only a cat’s tail twitching. Long silences and sidelong glances she managed fine. As she rocked to a stop, she swiped her knuckles across her forehead. “We take separate cars, and if you introduce me to a single, solitary person as your date or your girlfriend, I walk.”
Holy fucking shit, she’d delivered a yes. Negotiating terms, not the date itself, because that was a yes. Green light on Operation Real Relationship with Katherine. A prelude to permission for waking up beside her, watching her eyelids flutter as she dreamed. Arousing her with kisses down her gently sloping nose to the rounded tip. Planting one on her sweetheart lips and nibbling to his heart’s content.
She coughed. “Unless you don’t want—”
“Nope, nope, I want.” Christ Jesus. Standing here daydreaming while the woman at the center of his fantasies waited for his reply. Hell of a showing. “I’ll text you details, and I’ll tell everyone you’re a stranger who followed me to alert me my taillight’s out.”
She laughed, thank God. Sweet and low, wrapping him in love-fog, the same substance that must’ve addled Rob’s brains last summer. He hadn’t warned the stuff would be so damn addictive. But maybe every man had to figure that one for himself.
* * * *
Rattling off her number, she rushed him out the door. Any more of Prince Charming’s temptations tonight, and she’d start calling him the devil. As he swaggered out of view, he left behind an uncommon vacancy. The strange pull demanded more than his dick, though she wouldn’t scrape a healthy serving of that off her plate, either.
With the sign flipped to Closed , she rested against the door and replayed the best five minutes of her day. Well, maybe seven minutes. The notion of timing him had flown away as soon as he’d spun her toward the wall.
The way he took control—no guy won that concession from her. Maybe the difference accounted for the surge of something-ness urging her to see him again. Micromanaged, most one-nighters got the job done, but the satisfaction dissipated in the final few climactic shudders. With Brian, the buzzing high had driven her toward more dangerous games. Grabbing his ass while her customer waited out front. Fuck, she’d lost her mind. His damn fault.
By the time she got the shop closed up and the mixer waiting in the back fixed, she’d be late for dinner again. Hung-up, moony-eyed girlfriends depended on a man to keep them company. She’d finish up on her own and like it, dammit. And stop fucking jumping
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