by Misti Murphy
Parker: He’s such a flirt.
***
Parker: Ice skating? Laser Tag? Darts?
Bree: What are you doing?
Parker: We need to celebrate insuring my most prized possession. Hot air ballooning? Horseback riding? Swimming with dolphins?
Bree: Those are all incredibly random.
Parker: I’m going to call so we can nail it down to one.
Bree: You’re not nailing anything with me.
Parker: And yet you’re still thinking about it.
***
Parker: Had a lovely conversation with Tim. We decided I should take you paintballing. Or Sky diving.
Bree: No, thank you.
Parker: Don’t give up on me. I’ll come up with something.
***
I stare at the card that’s tacked to my fridge with a smiley face magnet. One of the many my sister sends to me when she’s travelling. The magnets, I mean. It’s been her thing since her gap year after high school. Everywhere she goes, no matter how close to home it might be, she buys a magnet, and the excess always end up sneaking their way into my apartment.
This isn’t the first time I’ve caught myself staring at the fridge instead of reaching for the creamer, or the orange juice, or whatever else was in my original plan. I can’t get Bree Jackson out of my head.
She’d managed to maintain her professionalism almost our entire meeting, but it had taken a supreme amount of effort. Her face had been a slide show of warring emotions. She couldn’t hide the curiosity in her eyes. Or the way her cheeks colored and she’d had to wet her lips. She’d reacted to me as much as I had to her. Even if she didn’t want to admit it. Even if she’d tried so very hard to hide behind disgusted glares and eye rolls. She’d have had a much better chance of hiding the fact that she was into me if she’s donned Darth Vader’s helmet.
Maybe that’s all in my head, though, because she refuses to answer her phone when I try to call.
Instead, I’ve had to deal with some guy named Tim whose flirting is top notch but misdirected. I bet if he’d come to the meeting he wouldn’t have said no to assessing the physical asset with his own peepers.
Too bad I’m not dreaming about Tim’s lips or supple golden legs. Too bad when I get lost in staring at Bree’s name on the card on my fridge I’m not thinking about how silky Tim’s hair would feel between my fingers. Tim and I might really hit it off otherwise. He could be the Simon to my Garfunkel, the Juliet to my Romeo, the Princess Leia to my Han Solo.
Alas, it isn’t to be. I’m strictly into vaginas. And as far as I can tell Tim doesn’t have one.
I check the time. Still a few minutes to work out what I was looking for while I studied Bree’s card, my hands thrust deep in the pockets of my favorite slob jeans. In the fridge, not with Bree. I’m not looking for anything with her.
Yeah, that’s why I asked her out. I roll my eyes. On a date. Because that’s totally normal behavior for me. I can’t remember the last time I gave a woman this much focus.
I want to chalk it up to the fact that she’s currently handling my best asset. My mind immediately envisages her with her hand wrapped around my cock. Except she isn’t managing it, is she? Not in any capacity, since she refuses to take my calls. That’s probably what is really bugging me.
The way her nose wrinkled as she dropped her gaze to my boxer briefs, like the fact that I existed was enough to irritate her; nope, that doesn’t make me curious. Especially since her eyes gave away how much she liked what she saw. So much so that she couldn’t stop staring. A look that for some reason attracted me more than it should have. Definitely more than the redhead on Monday who slid to her knees, her lips parting before she hit the floor. Or the blonde on Wednesday whose eyes practically begged me to fuck her from across the room. Neither of which had any luck.
There’s a solution for this issue, of course. It lies a little further away than my phone, which currently sits on the kitchen island. But I’m not opposed to the idea. One last read of her name and I pocket my keys, phone, and wallet, and leave the apartment.
If the only way the woman will talk to me is face to face, then I’ll deliver the doctor’s results myself.
CHAPTER THREE
Bree
It was a normal morning in the office. I’d handled multiple calls from clients who wanted amendments to their policies or didn’t understand something in the terms and conditions of their contract. Occasionally I’d made my way to the break room for coffee or stopped by Tim’s cubicle, which shares a wall with mine, to complain about how slow the day was going. The only thing different about today compared to the rest of the week is that Parker Kent hasn’t messaged or called.
Which is fine by me. It’s not like I want him to message me on a daily basis, or like my heart kicks up a notch and I can’t help but smile each time a new notification appears on my phone. It’s not like I miss passing his call to Tim and then listening to my bestie chat up the most despicable and heterosexual man I’ve ever met. The kind of man Tim is into would never name his peen the Pussy Assassin, that’s for certain. Yet, they manage to make these daily calls last while I hunch over my keyboard and try to ignore the buzz under my skin and the sudden flush of heat that accompanies it.
A growing line of thumbtacks adorn the picture of Parker that’s hung beside my desk, thanks to his calls, but it isn’t because the man is awful. In actual fact, I no longer feel particularly justified in my dislike of him, or I wouldn’t, if there hadn’t been yet another accident in front of his billboard this morning.
And he is gorgeous. Stupid hot. The kind of universal good looking that can’t be denied. He’s like Nickelback or the Kardashians. Even if you could manage to verbalize out loud that he’s not hot, it’s only because you’re ashamed of the guilty pleasure you take from staring at him.
As if on cue and clearly thinking along the same lines I am, Tim sticks his head around the partition. His lips are all pouty, but his blue eyes give him away. “Hot Stuff missed his flirt session this morning. Should I be worried? Did you scare him off?”
“I wish.” I blow a breath that flutters my bangs, but the truth is, I don’t wish. Though I haven’t taken a single one of his calls, I’m flattered by his consistent attention. The day seems a little duller without listening to his and Tim’s entertaining conversation. Probably because insurance is as boring as going to the gynaecologist most of the time. In fact, that’s definitely the reason. “Wanna blow this haystack?”
“I’d rather blow Parker Kent,” he says, his tongue popping into his cheek as he grins.
“I meant we should get lunch.” I shake my head, pretending not to be as childish as my bestie and failing miserably with a grin that damn near hurts my cheeks.
“Where?” He fiddles with my tray of thumbtacks, picking one up, putting it down, repeating the silly ritual over again.
“Shake Shack? I’m craving a chocolate shake.” A burger and fries sound like heaven too, and it isn’t far from the office.
“Oh.” Tim grimaces like he isn’t impressed. It’s an out and out lie. We both adore Shake Shack and have enjoyed numerous lunches there. He pushes a thumbtack into Parker’s image. Probably because he’s disappointed he hasn’t been able to get his flirt on today. “How about Epic Burger?”
I roll my gaze to the ceiling. “You only want to go there because you want to flirt with the guy behind the counter.”
“What?” He raises a blond eyebrow, better manicured than my own, as though the idea has never entered his mind. Filthy liar. “He’s a hottie though, isn’t he? You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Fine. Epic Burger then.”
I’m about to climb out of my chair when someone clears their throat from outside my cubicle. It’s a deep rumbling sound that doesn’t belong to anyone in the office. If it did I would know. There are only five of us plus Malcolm in our department. Tim and I glance up at the intruder at the same time.
“Oh my.” Tim straigh
tens the Windsor knot in his tie and stage whispers, “He’s even hotter in real life.”
Yes. Yes he is. From his baggy, but not Hammer Time baggy, jeans to the tight white T-shirt that clings to his muscles like a second skin, to the baseball cap pulled so low over his eyes they’re barely visible, yet doesn’t hide the smile that trips over his full lips. Sunglasses hang from the collar of his shirt. My vagina reacts with a shriek, but I’m not so sure she’s scared of being murdered.
In his hand he holds an envelope.
“Is that some kind of voodoo?” Parker tilts his jaw, which is covered in a light layer of stubble, indicating my desk. I’m not sure what he’s getting at. My job can be complex, but it isn’t witchcraft.
Tim snorts and clambers off my desk. “I’m going to leave you to it. Let me know if you still want to do lunch.”
He brushes past Parker, and I’m surprised he doesn’t try to cop a feel. Though he does make obvious gestures at the man’s ass while wiggling his eyebrows before disappearing into his own cubicle. Probably to eavesdrop.
“You really don’t like me, do you?” Parker says as he steps into my cubicle, still staring in the general vicinity of my desk.
I glance over my shoulder at the object of his focus. The torn page from a magazine; Parker Kent in his Calvin Kleins and a whole heap of thumbtacks stuck into his crotch. “Oh. Um.” Shit.
Malcolm will kill me if I lose Parker as a client. My boss has been crowing to anyone who would listen ever since Parker called him. I should have taken the picture down a week ago. Right after our meeting. Why didn’t I?
Parker clasps his hands in front of him, guarding his crotch from the onslaught I can only imagine he’s now wary of. He probably thinks I’m psychotic, deranged, or at the very least ready to do some damage to his manhood. Jumping out of my chair, I rip the picture from the wall. Thumbtacks fly across the room and clatter to the floor like sharp and pointy hailstones. “I’m sorry. That was...”
There is no good excuse. My mind races to come up with something that would at least sound plausible. I thought it was a map... of your penis. Crap on a cracker. I’m going to lose my job over this.
Instead of turning and tucking his figurative tail between his legs, or, in this case, his rather sizable bulge, Parker moves closer. “I think I’m going to have to change your mind about me.”
“That’s not...” going to happen. And yet it already is. Because Parker Kent is not his billboard. He’s not the sum of his boxer briefs. He’s actually intelligent. Funny. Kind of nice. But that’s not the point. Superb customer service is the point. I need to concentrate on that and not the way my ovaries are simultaneously drooling as he shifts his cap while those caramel eyes try to drown me. “It’s not necessary.”
“It’s very necessary,” Tim’s voice slides into the conversation effortlessly from behind our shared wall. Of course there’s no way he could keep his opinions to himself.
Parker chuckles, and the sound reverberates through me like I’m the echo of him. My insides clench.
“Jackass,” I grumble at Tim, settling for a less effective word than I would have liked to use, but we are in the office. Parker is a client, and I have already given management a good enough reason to at least give me a warning if he chooses to complain.
“Thanks, man,” Parker says. “I hope that means you don’t mind if I steal her for lunch.”
As long as you don’t eat me. Oh God, am I on the menu? My vagina jumps up and down. If she had arms she’d raise them above her head and scream, Take me, take me, take me.
But I don’t want to be on the menu. I don’t want to imagine that gorgeous mouth between my thighs. Shut up, vagina. You don’t have a say in this.
Parker Kent is everything I can’t stand. Conceited. A player. Way too charming for his own good. And a client. Jeez, that’s important too. “Look, I’m sorry. Hanging that picture was completely unprofessional. And the thumbtacks were purely an act of censorship.”
“Liar,” Tim interrupts, and Parker’s eyebrows raise into points under his cap.
“It was an easy place to keep them,” I try again.
Tim clears his throat.
“Should I take it from here, Tim?” Parker smirks as he eats up the final step between us.
“Sure,” Tim agrees, and I glare daggers at him through the wall. I hope he feels them even though he can’t see me.
Parker couldn’t get closer if he tried. There’s no air in my cubicle, no space either. His torso is a mere inch from mine, and the heat that emanates from him transfers between us. My arms are pinned to my side. My palms start to sweat. His top lip curls for a split second and his gorgeous eyes dance over my face as he speaks softly, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
They are. Well my panties are. For a split second, and then they’re drenched. He can probably tell by the catch in my breath and the sudden shakiness in my knees. If my vagina could jump out of my body and into this man’s lap she totally would. She’d probably strip for dollars and give him a lap dance too. My vagina is a wannabe whore.
“I didn’t hear what you said,” Tim mutters.
A bubble of laughter bursts through my lips and shocks my vagina back to reality. Parker Kent is sexy as hell, but he’s also used to women falling all over him, and that isn’t in my nature. I’m not after casual sex. Not that I’m after anything in particular. It’s been six months since the last time I’ve even bothered to go on a date. The only men in my life at the moment are Tim, my cat, Sirius Black, and my brother.
Parker Kent is the definition of casual, and therefore not interesting to me. I can guarantee he hasn’t given those twins another thought since the moment they walked out of his apartment. “How are Violet and Blondie?”
I don’t need to like him to do my job. It’s probably best for my vagina and my self-esteem if I don’t. It really seems like the best option.
“What?” He draws back enough to look at me properly.
“Who are Violet and Blondie?” Tim asks. “Parker do you have something you want to tell me? Don’t tell me I’m not your one and only. You promised we’d be forever.”
I roll my gaze to the ceiling. “You’re not actually friends with him, Tim.”
“Yeah, he is,” Parker says.
“Yeah, I am,” Tim says at the same time. Apparently letting Tim field my Parker calls was a mistake.
“I can’t believe you seduced Tim,” I mutter.
“So Violet and Blondie...” Tim pulls us back on track and gives me a reason to be thankful we’re friends.
“The clothes hanger twins,” I supply.
“Ah.” Parker’s eyes darken as he scratches his jaw. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Um.”
“God, I want to be fucked by twins,” Tim says, sighing gustily from behind his wall.
“Shut up, Tim.” There’s an image I never wanted or needed. I want to bang my palm against the side of my head to dislodge the mental imagery that had taken up residence inside my frontal lobe.
“Yeah, shut up, Tim,” Parker parrots me. “You’re not helping.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business,” I say, and it isn’t. Parker’s ability to fuck anything that walks has nothing to do with me. Although being the insurer of his dick unfortunately makes at least parts of it my business. “Did you manage to get in to see Dr. Davis?”
“I did.” He holds up the envelope.
I reach for it, and he yanks it away before I can take it from him. “Are you going to give it to me?” I ask.
His million-dollar smirk—now that is something worth insuring—reappears. “On one condition.”
“And that would be?” My heart thrums, my mouth waters. My curiosity screams for answers. I hold out my hand, and he strokes the inside of my palm with one corner of the envelope that will see the Pussy Assassin insured. I can’t think that name without mentally rolling my eyes and giggling like a fourteen-year-old girl, but I also can’t hide the shiv
er that wiggles up my spine.
“Have lunch with me.”
It’s more a demand than a question. After all, it comes with a side of blackmail. Still, I have to try to worm my way out of anything that isn’t purely professional when it comes to Parker Kent. “I can’t.”
“She can,” Tim butts in like the big old butthead he is.
“I have to meet a client,” I try again.
“She doesn’t,” Tim says.
“We’ll go to Shake Shack,” Parker offers, still teasing me with the envelope. “Great burgers and shakes.”
Damn it. He’s cheating by using my earlier conversation with Tim against me. I have a real hankering for a chocolate shake and fries. Preferably at the same time. My stomach grumbles loudly. Fucking stomach giving me up for a lousy shake.
“I’ll pay,” he says, once again dangling the envelope within my grasp.
I don’t want to fall for it. But this is the last step before I can officially tell Malcolm that Parker’s insured by Global, and that makes trying to snatch it out of his hand totally worth it. Except he reads me like a Nicholas Sparks novel. His hand flies back at the same time I leap forward and instead of coming out victorious, I come out with an arm full of his bicep and my boobs pressed to his chest.
“Well, well,” he says. “Isn’t this nice?”
My nipples agree with him. They pucker up for his kiss and make an effort to reach through the fabric of my dress shirt and blazer to feel the hardness of his chest. Tough luck, tits. Not on my watch. Plus what the hell is that on his arm anyway? My palm squeezes around the muscle of his bicep. “Christ, is that a boulder in there? Do you just carry rocks with you wherever you go?”
He chuckles softly as I squeeze and grope and prod his muscle. It defies explanation. Gravity. The simple laws of science.
He tosses the envelope on my desk, and it barely registers that I’ve won. He’s given it over without my agreeing to lunch. Reaching around me, he snags my purse and pushes it into my hand. “Come on, I’m taking you to lunch.”
