by Elise Faber
And he’d want to get Moron tattooed on his forehead.
“I don’t have time to date.”
“So, you’re just going to work nonstop for another eight years, let the world pass you by, and not have anything on the other side of it?”
“Not nothing,” he said, tugging open the door for her. “I have you.”
Claire’s lips pressed flat. “I’m dating someone.”
This made his brows raise. “Is it serious?”
She grinned. “No.”
He snorted. “Then I’ve still got my fabulous new VP.”
Quiet, amusement drifting across her face. “That you do.”
“Yeah?” he asked, fighting a smile at the first sign of her agreeing to take the positon.
Another grin. “Yeah.”
Ben leaned down and kissed her cheek. “That’s better than a match any day of the week.”
Her expression went soft. “Ben—”
He straightened. “See you Monday.”
Then he closed her door, moved to his own car, and drove home.
Because, between then and Monday, he’d do what he did best.
Work.
Chapter Nine
Stef
She was bordering on buzzed.
Margaritas for the win, but this time of the prickly pear variety.
They were eating at their favorite Mexican place, and while they usually met on Thursdays, this week Stef, Tammy, Cora, and the Couples, as they’d termed the other non-single women and their partners in their friend group, had gotten together on Friday.
They had chips and fajitas and prickly pear margaritas.
And fun.
Lots and lots of fun.
But even though it was tempting to dive into the newest pitcher of margaritas, she was tired. It had been a long week, and Fred had woken her up early that morning. She knew that if she had another glass, she was going to be straight buzzed, and then she wouldn’t be driving home.
She’d need a ride to the restaurant in the morning, and her chores and errands would start last. Which meant beach day would probably be delayed, and . . . Fred would unhappy.
Which meant she would be unhappy.
Because the little—big—fuzz bucket would probably take his unhappiness out on her sock drawer.
And she wasn’t willing to give up a single pair of them.
So she had cut herself off, was eating her homemade tortillas like a champ, and going to make sure her buzz trickled away so she could drive safely home to her little Freddy-bear.
Grinning to herself, she scooped up an obscene amount of salsa onto a chip and crammed it into her mouth. Then another tortilla. Then more peppers and onions and steak and salsa and chips until she felt like she was bursting from all the food. Only then did she look up and see the entire table staring at her. “What?” she asked, and so yeah, maybe it was muffled from the remnants of a chip in her mouth.
Tanner’s brows lifted, his gaze turning to Kelsey. “Should I check and see if the kitchen has any food left?”
Stef glared.
Kels popped him on the shoulder. “Rude much?”
“The girl just hoovered everything on the table,” he said. “I don’t think that I’m rude, so much as impressed. Where does she put it all?”
Now Stef rolled her eyes. “It’s her fault,” she mumbled after chewing and swallowing, pointing at Heidi. “She works me to the bone, night and day.”
Heidi gasped. “How dare you?”
“How dare I?” Stef teased. “I’m not the one who ate my lunch.”
Narrowed eyes, even as the table broke out into laughter mixed with admonishments. “That was one time,” Heidi said. “And it was an accident.”
Stef smirked. “An accident that you ate the whole thing?”
Heidi blushed.
“I’m just saying, I’m not the only one who can eat.” She pointed at the table, where the rest of them had gone to town on their own plates. “And also, I like salsa too much to give a shit about the fact that I’m carrying a taco baby around.”
Click.
She blinked at the flash, the sound of Tanner taking a photograph.
“Sorry,” Tanner said, setting his camera on the table. “You’re beautiful.”
It wasn’t a come-on, or weird—or not that much anyway. Tanner was a photographer. World-famous, supremely talented. People paid boatloads of money to get him to take their picture.
But he took a lot of photos of everyone when they were all together, and they were fabulous.
Including, she saw when she gestured for the camera and he handed it over, glancing at the screen on the back, the one he’d just taken of her.
If Stef hadn’t been looking at herself, she would have agreed the woman in the photograph was beautiful. Fierce eyes, a flush on her cheeks, hair shining from the lights overhead. There was fire in her, even though she’d been yelling about food and taco babies.
It was . . . nice to see the fire again.
“Okay?” Tanner asked, squatting next to her and sliding the camera from her hands. He glanced at her face and winced. “Never mind, I’ll delete it.”
“No,” she said, covering his fingers with her own. “It’s . . . will you send it to me?”
His face gentled. “Of course.” A beat. “And for the record, I wasn’t trying to make fun of you, I was truly impressed.” A grin. “From one Hoover to the next.”
Laughing, she nudged his shoulder. “Speaking of which, you’d better go eat up before I take care of business for you.”
A grin. “Noted.”
She glanced up, saw Kels smiling apologetically, but Stef just shook her head, letting her friend know she was in on the joke and happy with the picture, even if it felt a bit like Tanner was their own paparazzo.
Still, it was nice to have the moments documented.
She didn’t have many pictures of herself.
She wasn’t really into selfies, and Jeremy certainly hadn’t taken many of her, and her parents . . . well, sometimes things slipped through the cracks when a family was just trying to survive.
Tammy nudged her arm. “You okay, bugaboo?”
Stef’s brows lifted. “Bugaboo?”
“Ignore me.” Tammy’s cheeks went a little pink. “As much as I want to not be like my mother, she still creeps in sometimes.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Stef told her. “I’ve met your mom, and she’s great.”
A sigh. “She is great,” Tammy agreed, sadness flickering behind her pale brown eyes. “But try living in the shadow of all that greatness.”
Stef knew something about shadows, something she’d shared the barest of details with her friends. Something that Tammy obviously remembered because she reached over and grabbed Stef’s hand. “Shit,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Stef nudged her shoulder, squeezed back. “We’re not in a one-upmanship trauma contest. If it hurt your heart, you don’t get to discount it.” She smiled. “You can move past it, but you don’t get to discount it. It’s part of you and important and—”
She broke off.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “This is too serious of a conversation for prickly pear margaritas.”
On that note, she decided to fuck it all, tugged her hand from Tammy’s, and poured herself another margarita.
A Lyft it would be.
Fred would just have to deal.
Tammy’s fingers brushed the back of Stef’s. “You’re an amazing woman,” she said, and Stef forced herself to accept the compliment, to not snort and discount it like her first instinct pressed her to do.
“Thank you,” Stef murmured. “You are, too.”
Tammy grinned. “I wasn’t done, you know?”
“Done with what?” Heidi asked, her focus drawn from across the table to their conversation.
“Done with complimenting Stef and watching her squirm because she doesn’t believe them,” Tammy said.
“Oh!” Heidi clap
ped her hands together. “I like this game.”
Stef groaned, began sucking back her margarita.
“She’s brilliant,” Heidi said. “My lab wouldn’t run nearly as efficiently without her.”
Another groan, her head falling to the table.
Kate laughed, drawing Stef’s focus. “I’d add kind to that list.” A smile. “And a great baker.” She rubbed her stomach. “Based on the dozen muffins I ate last time you brought them to our house.”
“And didn’t share,” Jaime, her husband, added with a wink. Kate narrowed her eyes, but Jaime just smoothed her hair back, kissed her cheek, and then turned back to Stef. “My addition to the list is that she’s a great dog mom.”
Okay, now her heart was melting. Because Jaime was Jaime the Vet, and knowing that he approved of her dog mom skills meant a lot.
Her Fred was a special boy.
“Thanks, Jaime.”
He winked, snagged a pepper from Kate’s plate.
“Are we going around the table?” Brad asked, his eyes—a slightly deeper brown than his brother’s—sparkling with humor.
“God, no,” Stef muttered.
“Yes!” Cora said. “She has great taste in nerd. Stargate-SG1 is the shit.”
“Oh, Lord,” Stef moaned, dropping her head to the table again. But only for a moment, because Cora tugged her up and shoved her glass in her hand.
“Drink and absorb,” she ordered.
Drink. Oh, she’d drink all right. She glugged down that margarita, refilled her glass, and continued shoveling in chips and salsa.
“Great,” Brad said. “I’ll go next.”
She clenched her teeth together, met his gaze when he waited for her to meet his eyes, all the aplomb of a magician gathering his audience’s attention. “I’d second the good baker”—a pat to his belly—“and good dog mom.”
Her cheeks blazed.
“That Fred, even with his obsession with squirrels, is a good boy.”
“He is,” she murmured.
He grinned. “But I’d say, more than that, you’re a good friend, and we’re all lucky to have you in our lives.”
Not, the girls were lucky to have her.
But all of them.
She sniffed.
All the women sniffed.
“How the hell am I supposed to follow that?” Kels grumbled, even as Stef was thinking how in the hell was she supposed to act like this was all normal when she felt like her heart was going to explode out of her chest?
Meanwhile, Tanner said, “I’ll just reiterate beautiful.”
Silence.
Then more sniffing.
Cora whispered, “All the good men.” A beat. “The bitches have taken them all.”
Stef sighed, even though they were both smiling. Because fucking hell, she was right. “I know,” she muttered and turned to Tammy. “How in the hell are you supposed to date someone and not compare them to those jokers?”
Tammy shook her head, ponytail fluttering behind her. “I don’t date.” A shrug. “So, the problem is solved.” Her lips twitched. “No comparisons necessary.”
“Probably for the best,” Stef said, reaching for her glass again.
She held it up, touched it to Tammy’s.
“To margaritas over men.”
Tammy grinned, tapped back. “To margaritas over men.”
Chapter Ten
Ben
His phone buzzed when he was debating getting up and going to bed.
He picked it up off the table, expecting to see a text but instead heat trailed down his spine and red lips flashed to the forefront of his mind.
Holding his breath, he opened the app.
I’m sorry I didn’t reply.
Shock washed over him, and he found his fingers moving without thinking.
Why didn’t you?
Silence.
No response for long minutes.
His gut sank, and he tossed his phone on the table. He needed to delete the fucking app and just be done with it.
Sweetheart snarled as he flopped back on the couch—well, more grumble than growl. Things between them had improved, mostly because he’d stopped trying to get pet sitters and had just been bringing the princess into the office with him every day.
He, apparently, was the least unpleasant scenario.
It might also be that him bringing her to his office every day meant that she could growl at him at will.
His phone buzzed again, surprising the hell out of him.
I was scared.
Ben read those three words and came to the obvious conclusion. He was a Black guy. She was a white girl. Of course, she was scared of him. It fucking sucked, but it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten that reaction, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last. It just . . . hurt.
This time, he was the one who didn’t respond.
He dropped his phone back on the table and went into the bathroom, brushing his teeth, washing his face, going to bed . . . except, he needed to charge his phone. And that was the only reason he went back to the family room and picked up his cell.
The only reason.
But when he happened to glance at the screen—happened to see the open app—he saw that it was filled with messages.
I was scared because you’re beautiful. The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And I’m just me, whose boyfriend broke up with her because she was boring.
And also maybe because I loved my dog more than him.
You’re mysterious and sexy and have amazing eyes and stubble and . . . I usually spend my nights watching Stargate while reading research papers.
You asked me to coffee and I panicked and I shouldn’t be typing this.
But I’m drunk and waiting for my Lyft and . . . shit. I know I shouldn’t be typing this.
So why can’t I stop?
Right.
Because I’m drunk and my Lyft doesn’t appear to be coming.
So I’m going to request another one, save you from my drunk ass, and go back to not messaging you.
Not that you’ll do anything but block me after this.
Or not respond. Because I deserve that.
Anyway, goodbye, Ben. Sorry I ghosted you before.
He reached the end of that text diarrhea to find his heart pounding, hope he was trying to ignore blossoming inside him.
Because she was drunk and waiting for a ride, who knew where, and he shouldn’t give a fuck, but his gut was twisting itself into knots thinking of red lips and curves being out there and drunk and . . . vulnerable.
Where are you?
He sent it and when she didn’t immediately respond, he sent another message.
Stef, honey, where are you right now?
A few seconds, his stomach clenched tight, before she replied.
Bobby’s Bar. My friends and I went for drinks after dinner.
Relief coursed through him.
You’re not alone then? They’ll get you home?
A long pause.
I put them in their Lyft. Waiting for mine.
“Fuck,” he hissed, shoving his feet into his shoes and shrugging into his jacket.
How long?
He moved out his front door, down the elevator to the garage.
For what?
Clamping the phone into the holder perched in his air vent, he replied before backing out of the stall.
Until the Lyft comes.
He was already on the freeway when she replied.
Don’t worry about it.
Fucking hell. He pulled over, typed a message, then continued driving.
How long?
A long pause, long enough that Ben’s teeth felt as though they’d been ground down to their nubs. Then her response came through, and it made pain radiate down his jaw.
It’s surging. Still trying to match.
He pulled in a breath through his nose, glad that he was only a few minutes out, and released it slowly as he exited the freeway and paused at the signal at the
bottom of the off-ramp.
Risking a ticket, he speed-typed then continued driving.
I’ll be there in five minutes.
Nothing.
Then a flurry of messages came through.
He caught one of them as he stopped at a stop sign, but then he was continuing to drive, nearing the entrance of Bobby’s and slowing, looking for curves and red lips and . . .
There.
Shorter than he’d expected.
An ass that looked glorious in a pair of jeans. He’d known. He’d known.
Carefully, he pulled up to the curb and rolled down the window. “Stef.”
Her eyes were wide, and when he said her name, she squeaked. Literally squeaked. Fuck, she was cute. He put on the flashers and got out, rounding the hood and stopping in front of her.
Freckles.
She had a swathe of freckles on her nose.
Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, a few whisps having escaped to frame her face. “Get in,” he said. “I’ll drive you home.”
“You’re here,” she breathed, lifting her hand up as though she’d stroke his jaw. But her fingers halted, just before she touched him, near enough that he could actually feel the heat from them on his skin.
Then she skittered back a step.
“You’re here?” Her mouth opened and closed a few times. “But why are you here?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I need to move my car. You getting in, so I can drive you home?”
Her teeth nibbled on her bottom lip.
