Harlequin Dare May 2021 Box Set

by Jackie Ashenden

  I give my elbow a shake, but the man sticks like a burr. “What are you doing?”

  “Walking my date to the door.” He’s smiling, but his voice is firm. He’s not going to budge on this.

  Up close, my camper doesn’t look any better. There’s a streak of something green-black running down one side and the screen’s mostly popped out of the window closest to the door. It’s like a half-opened tin can. But it’s mine. I get to live here alone, on my own terms, and I’m completely self-supporting. Or I was, until Martin the Asshole made his asshole moves. It’ll be okay, or that’s what I tell myself as I fish around in my purse for my keys. I’m really good at coming up with new plans.

  The door pops open easily, making me wonder for the umpteenth time if the lock is more decorative than functional. A quick visual check of the tiny space inside seems good, though—no one’s cleaned out my stuff while I’ve been partying at a billionaire’s house.

  Jax snags my wrist, clearly anticipating my next move, which is to hide inside and shut the door on him.

  His fingers tighten gently, pinning me on the spot. I don’t like it when people hold on to me, but this feels different somehow. Maybe it’s all the hot sex. Maybe he’s fucked the imagination right out of me and that’s why I can’t think of the many reasons why walking away from Jax—or running or hiding—is so important.

  “Peony.” His voice is a deep, luscious growl. It also packs a whole lot of judging into my name.

  “It’s cheap and it has an ocean view.” I sound defensive and we both know it.

  “You worried about money, Firefly?”

  “Hello? Got propositioned by my boss last night—the odds of my having a job on Monday are slim.” Crap. Why did I say that? Why do I always worry and overshare? I force my hands to untwist and relax by my sides. Nothing to see here. Everything’s under control.

  The furrow between his brows deepens until he’s sporting a Grand Canyon-worthy chasm of pissed off. “He’s lucky you don’t sue his ass.”

  Yeah. Been there, done that, got the souvenir T-shirt.

  “I’m not convinced this place is safe.” He sounds like he’s about to march over to the nonexistent property manager’s office and lay into someone.

  “Fortunately for you, you don’t live here, cupcake. I do.”

  “Cupcake?” He gives me a dark look.

  “You seem to have christened me Firefly,” I mock. “I’m just returning the favor.”

  “This is not an apartment,” he bites out. “Or a condo, a house, or any other kind of normal living arrangement.”

  Honestly, it’s San Francisco. Tons of people live in their cars or other makeshift places, and I’ve got it good in comparison with them.

  “Uh-uh.” I press a finger against his gorgeous mouth. “This is what I can afford. Fuck, it’s my choice. I’m not rich and even if I were, I’d rather be down here on the beach with the real people.”

  He huffs out an offended breath. “No rich people allowed. I’ll make you a sign. You can yell at them to keep off the grass.”

  Heh.

  When I slide off his jacket and hand it back, he rummages inside it and produces a little square of cardboard and a pen. Then he scribbles out a name on it and scrawls Jax and a number.

  “This is mine.” He taps the written string of digits and pushes it into my hand. “If you need another rescue, call me.”

  I turn the card over in my hand. Its original owner appears to have been a software developer. “If you’re going into the rescue business, you should get your own cards. Don’t be a cheapskate about it.”

  “I’m just up the beach.” He points toward a distant bluff where there is a smattering of cottages and oceanfront housing that does not involve campers or tarps. “I surf there.”

  “You surf?” I’m embarrassed at how breathless I sound. At least I keep my eyes on his face this time.

  “Yeah.” He pulls me into his arms. It feels more comfortable than I expect it to, although there’s absolutely nothing comfortable about the kiss that follows. He kisses me hungrily, his mouth devouring mine, until I’m clinging to him.

  “Firefly?” His mouth brushes my ear and I swallow a moan.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s another option. You could just call. Because you want to.”

  I’m still processing that when he drops a last kiss on my mouth and leaves.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Peony

  WHEN GOD CLOSES a door, he opens a window. Everything happens for a reason. Make lemons into lemonade. Okay so that last one was supposed to be a directive for me and not God, but seeing as how He’s the expert on turning water into wine, I could use His expertise.

  By Monday morning, I’ve fired off a formal email to Human Resources, officially giving notice. Friday night had already established that there was no way I could continue working with Mr. “Call me Bob” Martin, but I figure I should at least quit by the rules. Obviously, I’m not particularly good at rules, but I’m supposed to be getting better. Mostly, I just keep thinking about Jax and how he felt when he was on me. In me. Doing all those dirty things with me.

  While I wait to be magically reborn as Peony 2.0, I take my coffee outside on the beach. I also bring my laptop so I can pretend I’m doing something constructive and adultish. Sitting on an old towel, I scroll through Craigslist and find a couple of possibilities, including an opening for an archivist at a digital television station in San Francisco. Fingers crossed that they’re hiring quickly. I put out feelers to some temp agencies before I flop back on my towel and meditate on other ways to make money quickly that stop short of naked dancing in a sex club or outright prostitution.

  Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t want to be productive. It just wants to think about Jax when I’ve vowed to never, ever, think of the man again.

  Or kissing Jax.

  Definitely not about having sex with him.

  It’s just that he’s super talented with his fingers, his mouth, and his dick. Probably with other parts of his anatomy, too, which I’ll never discover now that we’ve parted ways for good. My imagination goes to work—at least part of me is working, right?—imagining all the undiscovered ways Jax could be good in bed. He’s creative, but he’s also not afraid to ask for what he wants—or to listen to what I want. He even let me drive his bike.

  Eventually, I give up on maturity and retreat to my RV, where I jill off frantically to my memories of Jax. It’s not as good as the real thing, but it takes the edge off.

  I have to be quiet because RV walls are thin and I’ve already learned way too much about my neighbors’ sexual habits. Eventually, I’ll move into an apartment like a normal adult, but right now this is cheap. I have a loft bed over the driver’s compartment, kind of like one of those shelves in a U-Haul, plus a miniature solar-heated shower and a composting toilet that I’d happily trade in for a fully plumbed model. Most of the rest of the space is taken up by a built-in table, squashy sofa, my favorite pillows, and the three succulents who sublease the windowsill. I’ve named them Fred, Frank and Fancy. Frank is currently raising two offspring and may merit a move to a larger pot to support his progeny.

  I could call Jax. He’d probably hook up with me again unless he’s already moved on to someone else or has one of those stupid “no repeat guests” personal rules. It’s not like we made any real commitment to each other, fake marriage notwithstanding. But as much as I hate the idea of him kissing someone else, I don’t call. I’m not sure how well I can do casual sex with him.

  Wednesday after my big weekend, I jolt awake to a surprising email from HR. My phone’s buzzing under my pillow like a vibrator gone mad and sun’s pouring through the window. I’ve overslept, and my mouth is gritty and I feel almost nauseous from too much sleep. When I check the phone, I learn that my last gig is “pleased” to offer me an exit package that i
ncludes a month’s salary and three months of paid health insurance. Mr. Martin is no longer with the company, my chipper correspondent explains, but if I need a job reference, I can contact her.

  Rescued from immediate penury, I go outside and putter around the beach. I do way too much staring at the waves and the tiny dots of surfers up near the bend, looking for Jax. I spot multiple lumberjack-size men in black wetsuits, but all of them are false positives. I’d stalk the beach longer, but I’m starting to feel like a pervert.

  Eventually, I wander back to my camper, where I discover a missed message on my phone. It’s just raining good news: I have a job interview to be the one and only corporate archivist at Hotly. God’s clearly listening, so I make a quick pitch for seeing Jax again.

  There has to be someone permanent in my life. A friend. Someone I can call and who will come over for tea. It’s just that I’m new to San Francisco and haven’t put down roots yet. I met a couple of girls who seemed fun at my last job, but then I bailed out of there without a word and so those potential friends haven’t happened. Jax isn’t my friend, more of a brief fuck buddy, but it doesn’t hurt to see if he’s around and maybe up for company. I thumb through my photos to find the picture I took of his card.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Peony. Think it through,” I tell myself. I’m the queen of rushing in. Do I text him something flirty? If I do, am I asking him for sex? Do I want sex with Jax? Honestly, I’m tired and role-playing is a lot of work sometimes. I sort of just want someone to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay. That I don’t have to hold it all together on my own and pretend my life’s totally Instagram-worthy. I can practically hear my sister snort.

  I Google quickly for some Cosmo-worthy opening texts, but the internet fails me today. I’m not above a little plagiarism, but none of them feel right. They’re all me pretending to be someone hotter, sexier and way more fun. Today I just feel quiet.

  Hey, I text. Are you at the beach today?

  As texts go, it’s not inspired.

  A drop of water splatters on my phone screen. Crap. I wipe it off with my shirt because I’m classy like that. It’s probably an editorial comment from the Big Guy Upstairs. If, you know, God took an interest in my pickup lines. Water inside the camper means water outside, so...rain.

  I lean over and poke a finger through the Venetian blinds to confirm the weather. A drizzling gray mist shrouds the beach, the sand and waves obscured by fog. Rain spots the pavement and the sand.

  Rain almost never happens in San Francisco. Sun, yes. Morning fog, absolutely. Wildfire smoke and unrelated smog? You betcha. As I wait for Jax to respond, the rain picks up its tempo. My tarp’s not quite up to the job because new drops sneak inside to join me.

  There’s probably a metaphor in that. My life’s a leaky mess that’s patched together with a twenty-dollar sheet of plastic.

  It takes him way too long to respond—Do you want to hang out?—long enough that I’ve grown at least two complexes.

  Men should come with secret decoder rings. I can’t tell if he wants to meet up—and if that would be a purely platonic, sure-we-can-share-the-beach meet-up or an invitation to have kinky sex. I debate texting my sister a screenshot and asking for her opinion, but she’s been married ten years. Her dating/hook-up radar is permanently rusted.

  I’m still trying to decipher his text when he adds, Incentive?

  His text is followed by a photo of a taco truck. From the angle of his shot, he’s in the water. I decide that’s a decent reason for the delay in his response.

  Since someone should be looking out for his poor at-risk phone, I text back.

  Who takes their phone in the water?

  This time his response is gratifyingly quick.

  I’ll buy you dinner and we can discuss.

  I suppose if I can have sex with him, I can eat with him. My stomach gives a protesting lurch. What if I’m not what he remembers? What if my everyday self is too weird, too boring, too unsexy? Tacos aren’t a four-course meal, so I guess neither of us would be trapped in awkward date hell. It could be okay.

  What if he’s different?

  I’ve got an indoor shower, so I text.

  Rain + holes in roof = free rain shower!

  He responds almost instantly.

  Are you all right? You call your landlord? I can come over there and MacGyver things.

  He hasn’t changed.

  I totally remember that endearingly overprotective streak. It must be hardwired into him.

  Another splash from above interrupts my train of thought. Shoot. I’m breaking out the towels.

  It’s NBD but I need a change of scenery, so those tacos sound good.

  There’s a slightly longer pause this time, but then he responds.

  I can come down and take a look. Be there in ten?

  I try to imagine how that would go. He comes charging down here and goes all white knight on my leaky roof and then...what? We either sit and stare at each other, knees bumping in my teeny camper or we have sex on my really small bed or... I guess we go for a really awkward, not-romantic beach walk.

  I vote tacos, I text.

  Coming ashore, he responds. See you soon.

  I guess we have a date/not-date then. Just tacos. On the beach. Something fun and uncomplicated. We were great together before, but I feel like I’m asking for something different. That I’m winging this in a way I haven’t before.

  I grab my favorite red-white-and-blue kimono and wander up the beach with a precautionary umbrella, trying to stretch the walk out so I don’t look too eager. It’s mostly beige-colored sand, seagulls, and the odd cigarette butt, although at least the rain stops after a few minutes and I can fold up my umbrella. There are palm trees where the sand meets the road, sure, but it’s not particularly balmy or bikini-studded. Still, it has a wild beauty of its own. I gaze out over the dark water, checking the waves that are rolling in hard. A handful of surfers fly toward the shore.

  When I reach the bend in the beach that I’ve mentally labeled Jax’s spot, I spot Jax immediately. He’s straddling a board maybe a hundred yards out, deep in conversation with another surfer. They look relaxed and happy. Although I know he wouldn’t have told me to come up here just to be polite, I can’t help but wonder if I’m interrupting his fun. Is he really ready to be done with the water?

  As soon as he sees me, he slides off the board and into the water, wading toward the beach with determined strides. Memories of our playdate tease me. He’s so big. So strong, so determined to look out for me. So sure he knows what’s right and what’s best and how the plan should unfold. And yet the man also knows how to take turns in bed, and he’s both dirty and creative.

  My stomach twists. What do I do now that I’m here? Do I hug him? Kiss his cheek European style? Pretend I’ve never touched or held his penis? Handshaking seems weirdly formal after he’s had his face between my legs. And yet...it’s not as if I’m going to drag him back to my camper for quickie sex. Okay. So I totally want to do that but I’m refraining. I rock back on my heels, thinking furiously and getting nowhere.

  He gives me that head tip guys do, but then a smile tugs the corner of his mouth up. “I’d be more friendly, but I’m gonna get you all wet.”

  There’s an awkward pause while we both consider the dirty pun. He winces. “That sounded bad.”

  “Awesome! Now I don’t have to worry about being the person who says something awkward.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got it covered.” He grins wryly. “Don’t tell the world, ’kay?”

  “Our little secret.” I mime locking my mouth with a key.

  He sets his board on the sand and then proceeds to tug down the zipper on his wetsuit. His suntanned, inked-up chest is all muscled lines and teasing patterns. I barely resist the urge to lick him. He shoves the unzipped suit down to his waist.

&nbs
p; My stomach growls and he holds his hand out to me. “Come on.”

  I let him pull me forward. His fingers are strong and callused, shockingly warm for someone who’s been frolicking around in the Pacific.

  The taco truck turns out to be a white van with a window on one side for taking orders and passing out the goods. Oye Taco Taco is painted on the front hood, while the menu’s listed on the side in red and yellow letters decorated with a big chili pepper. We order Tacos al Pastor and a pair of beers that the proprietor fishes out of a plastic cooler. They’re icy cold, the condensation dripping down their sides, and they’re gone long before the food is ready.

  When we collect our tacos, however, there’s not a single empty table in the handful of plastic patio furniture that’s doubling as restaurant seating. Jax scouts around, but it would take superpowers or the ultimate miracle to find a free spot. Everything’s taken and no one is budging.

  He makes a second and then a third scan, but there’s still no miraculous freeing-up of chairs.

  “Okay, change of plans,” he says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why don’t we head back to my place and eat there? Just food, no kinky stuff. I promise.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about his promise, but I do know that I’m starving. My stomach growls loudly and he grins.

  “Do you own a table?” A girl’s got to have standards.

  “I have both a table and a kitchen counter. Although in the spirit of full disclosure, I should note that the table is on my balcony and is not particularly large. However, I own not one but two chairs.”

  “Sold,” I say.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Peony

  I’D HAVE PEGGED Jax for a bachelor boy with an apartment, a leather couch and a massive flat-screen television. The kind of inexpensive place accessorized by roommates and a pile of sports gear, bike parts and maybe a basket of unfolded laundry. Definitely a 24-pack of beer.