by Hazel Kelly
“But you know where he works, right? So all isn’t lost.”
“You think I should jump straight to stalking him?”
She scrunches her face. “Do you not have any excuse to go back there?”
I sit up when the idea hits me. “Actually, I do have another Tinder date this week.”
“What are you going to do? Get his attention by drinking in his bar with someone else?”
“It worked last time.”
She squints. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m open to other suggestions if you have any.”
Her eyes roll up to the ceiling while she thinks.
“Well?”
She shakes her head. “I got nothing.”
“Damn.”
“Is he really worth the hassle?” she asks. “I mean, you said he’s not your type.”
“Just because he’s not Mr. Right doesn’t mean he can’t be Mr. Right Now.”
“Always a solid argument. Plus, I suppose it’s about time you pursued someone who might actually be useful to me.”
My mouth falls open. “How can you be so ungrateful? I’ve dated tons of useful people.”
She cocks her head. “Like who?”
“There was that guy who worked in the pet shop.”
“I don’t have any pets.”
“If you did, though, or if you wanted to get one—”
Cassie rolls her eyes.
“And there was that other guy.” I snap my fingers in the air but can’t come up with his name. “The one who worked at Netflix.”
“Everyone gets a free trial, Ruby. I’d hardly call that special treatment.”
I wave her complaint away. “Whatever. I can’t choose my boyfriends based on the perks you feel entitled to.”
“I think we’ve established that.”
The waitress arrives with our slices of chocolate dream cake and doesn’t stick around for our synchronized expressions of gratitude.
“I suppose a doctor would be handiest,” I say, picking up the small fork lying across my dessert plate.
“Second-handiest.”
“To what?”
“Probably a bartender,” she says.
“Rough week at the office?”
She sighs. “I feel like I lost the right to complain after I got promoted.”
I lean forward. “Are you kidding? I’d say you finally earned the right to complain.”
She forces a smile.
“Seriously, lay it on me.”
“It feels like… I don’t know. Like while we were enjoying the holidays, there were a bunch of people plotting who they were going to take to court on January first.”
I twist my mouth. “That is a pretty bitter way to kick off the new year.”
“Agreed.”
“Well, it could be worse.”
She lifts her eyes from her plate.
“I had an appointment this morning with a guy our age who can’t stop pissing his bed.”
“Shit.”
I slide the side of my fork through the tip of my cake. “I feel terrible for him. He’s not even a drunk or anything. He just has such bad anxiety it plagues him in his sleep.”
“That’s really sad.”
I nod. “I know.”
“Has he tried NyQuil PM?”
I roll my eyes.
“What?” she asks. “My body totally shuts down when I take that shit.”
“Not helpful.”
“You’re the one throwing his confidentiality out the window.”
“It’s not like I told you his name. Jeez, I was trying to make you feel better.”
“I hate to break it to you,” she says, “but you’re being outdone by this cake.”
I smile. “In fairness, this cake is tough competition. I’d say it’s in the top three nicest chocolate cakes I’ve tried this year.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “How many chocolate cakes have you tried this year?”
I look at the ceiling and try to remember them all without smiling like a lunatic. “Seven, I think.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“That seems like a lot,” she says. “It’s still January.”
“So? Just because everyone else is pretending they want to diet this month doesn’t mean I have to go along with it. Besides, someone has to keep the bakeries in business until February.”
“So it’s a public service?”
“What? My cake eating?” I ask. “I never thought about it that way, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I feel like I should up my game.”
“Don’t do that on my account.”
“I won’t. To be honest, it’s usually something I do on account of a shit date.”
“Really?” she asks. “I’ve heard of drowning your sorrows in ice cream, but chocolate cake is a new one.”
“Just because a girl has a bad date doesn’t mean she has to go home alone.”
“Well said.”
“Thanks,” I say, forking my next bite. “Besides, it helps motivate me to get myself out there.”
“Because you win either way?”
“Exactly.”
“Did you stop for cake after your spontaneous flirtation with the sexy bartender?” she asks.
“No, but I didn’t need cheering up then.”
“If he’s a proper Italian, I bet he’d happily eat cake with you.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Though in his company, I think I’d rather have a mouthful of something else.”
Cassie shakes her head. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Funny thing about that word. I always choke on it…just like I want to choke on the bartender.”
She groans. “Something tells me this isn’t the last I’ve heard about this guy.”
“Let’s hope so,” I say. “For you and me both.”
F I V E
I’m not exactly counting my lucky stars.
I mean, Tom seems nice enough, but I wouldn’t say he’s dazzling me. I was genuinely prepared to give him a chance, but things started going downhill when he couldn’t give me a straight answer about whether he preferred to be called Tom, Tommy, or Thomas. Seriously, who does that? If you don’t even know your own goddamn name is, how the hell am I supposed to remember it?
Shortly after that, I noticed that his hands are weirdly small. Disproportionately so, I’d say, considering the fact that he’s at least six feet—one of the traits he actually has going for him. But small hands are a deal breaker for me.
I hate to be shallow, but we all have to draw a line somewhere, and the thought of a man’s small hands on me—or even just grazing against my palm in a handshake—is enough to make me shudder.
In fact, that quality is officially in my top three things I’m not a big enough person to overlook. The other two are gross teeth and a high-pitched voice. I’m not saying people with those qualities don’t deserve love, but they’re more likely to get it from someone else. Plus, my voice goes quite high-pitched when I get stressed, and the sound of chipmunks arguing reminds me too much of my parents before they got divorced.
God, why does dating so often make me feel like a horrible person?
Then again, Tom or Tommy—whatever—is probably having equally unflattering thoughts about me. He almost certainly thinks my fingers are too chubby, and his appetite has most likely been ruined by the sight of my split ends. To make matters worse, I have a pimple rising up from the depths, and while it’s not really red yet, he might be sitting in a spot where the light is hitting it wrong, in which case he’ll probably meet up with his friends later to tell them about his boring date with the satyr.
“Anyway, to make a long story short, I thought about becoming a psychologist, too,” he says.
I nod. “But you went for accounting instead because…?”
“Money, for one thing,” he says, flashing a nice set of smug teeth. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I say, wondering how people might treat me
differently if they assumed I was rich instead of poor.
“Plus, numbers are a lot more straightforward than people.”
I force a laugh because it feels like it’s been too long since I threw him a bone. “Maybe for you.”
“Math wasn’t your strong suit in school?”
My eyes fall to his hands again when one of them starts caressing his beer bottle. Why is he doing that? Is he trying to seduce me? Or does he know about my hand thing and he’s trying to make me gag? “No. It still isn’t.”
He raises his eyebrows, as if he’s actually interested in hearing more about my relationship with numbers.
I sigh. “For example, I bet if someone asks you to solve an equation—say 12 times 52—”
“624.”
“Right. That automatic reaction to try and solve the problem—”
“That’s the right answer.”
“I’m sure it is, but the point is, I wouldn’t even try to figure that out. It’s as if the mere posing of a math problem signals my brain to just relax.”
He squints at me.
“You probably hate people like me,” I say too hopefully.
He shakes his head. “Actually, people like you are why I get paid the big bucks.”
I force a smile.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to pay a quick visit to the little boy’s room,” he says, downing half his beer like he’s determined to make the trip count.
I shake my head when he turns around. Why did he have to say little boy’s room? Just so I have to picture his little penis in his little hand? No wonder his hands weren’t in any of his Tinder pics. I really need to start being pickier.
That being said, at least he has a good job.
“Please tell me you didn’t pick this loser up on Tinder?” Geo asks, appearing beside the table looking so good in his white T-shirt my mouth waters.
“He’s not a loser,” I say, trying to hide how delighted I am that he’s actually here. I didn’t see him when I arrived, and to be honest, that might have been what soured my mood. “He’s a perfectly nice guy.”
“Doesn’t make him the guy for you.”
I scoff. “You don’t know that. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
His dark eyes fall down my body. “You didn’t undo any buttons for him.”
I straighten up against the back of my chair. “My buttons are not your concern.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says, his eyes licking my lips before he turns to leave.
I watch the way his jeans hug his perfect ass as he walks away, and while he looks sinfully hot, I’m annoyed that he felt compelled to share his unsolicited opinion… Though my annoyance is tempered by how flattered I am that he noticed me.
When he ducks behind the bar, I revert my attention to my beer, but I swear I can feel the heat of Geo’s gaze on my back. By the time Tom returns, my entire body feels alert, like a bunny that knows she’s being hunted.
“Sorry about that,” Tom says. “Hope you weren’t worried I fell in.”
My eyes grow wide.
“Some of the guys and I went for Mexican this afternoon and—”
“It’s all right,” I say, raising a palm between us. “Spare me the details.”
He snaps and points at me. “Got it.”
I release my first genuine smile of the date. After all, every woman likes a guy who can take a hint.
“So do you come from a big family?” he asks.
“No. There’s just me and my brother. And my dad’s remarried.”
“Your parents are divorced?”
“Yours aren’t?” I ask, mirroring the surprise in his voice.
“No, but I guess we’re proof of the fifty percent statistic.”
“I guess so.”
“Sorry.”
I’m touched by the genuine pity in his eyes, even though it’s totally inappropriate. “It’s fine, really.”
He scrunches his face. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Oh, okay.”
“No offense,” I say. “It’s just that they got divorced a long time ago, so I’ve made my peace with it.”
“Do you like your stepmom?”
“She’s not my mom in any sense of the word, and like I said, let’s change the subject.”
His face takes on a Casper-like paleness.
“Why don’t you tell me about your family,” I say, trying to sound friendly since I’ve obviously made him uncomfortable.
“There’s not much to tell,” he says. “I’m an only child and my parents are happily marrie—”
“Who the hell are you?” Geo steps up to our table puffed up like an angry cat and looks down at Tom. “And what the hell are you doing here with my girlfriend?”
Tom’s mouth falls open. “Wha—Uhhh.”
“I suggest you leave before I break every bone in your tiny hands,” Geo says, fists forming at his sides.
Tom pushes his chair back and looks at me like he feels equally shocked and betrayed before raising his palms to Geo. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know.”
“Stop,” I say, standing up when I realize Tom looks ready to shit himself. “You’re completely out of line.”
Geo doesn’t turn to me until after he’s watched Tom scurry from the bar without looking back.
“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” I ask, bringing a hand to my head.
“You’re welcome,” he says, heading back towards the bar.
I charge after him. “You scared the crap out of that guy!”
He turns around so fast I run right into his chest. “I did you a favor,” he says. “You’re way out of his league.”
I freeze, not used to being complimented in the middle of an argument.
“He was wasting your time.”
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
He points at the floor. “Right now?”
“Yeah, right now.”
“Trying to get you to stop making a scene in my bar.”
“You started it,” I say, waving my hands through the air. “And I still don’t understand why. I don’t belong to you.”
“Seriously, Ruby. If you’re going to keep yelling at me, would you at least do it in private?” He extends his palm towards a door behind the bar.
I storm past him and throw it open, realizing it’s only a supply closet as he closes the door behind me.
“You were saying?” he asks, stepping up to me until my back is against a wall of kegs.
“I was saying…” I pause to recover my train of thought, but it’s hard to think with him so close to me. “That you had no right to do that because I don’t belong to—”
And then he shuts me up with a kiss.
S I X
A bolt of electricity shocks my body as his lips crash against mine, and all I can do is open my mouth to him.
It isn’t polite. He doesn’t slowly try to part my lips with his. Instead, it’s almost like he’s intent on swallowing me whole, and I find my tongue is just as eager to taste him as his hand lifts one of my thighs to his hip so I’m at the mercy of his movements.
I grab at his T-shirt until I secure a clump in each hand, bracing myself as waves of anticipation rise through me.
I can feel his hard-on against my crotch, and my mouth waters at the thought of it being inside me, at the thought of him railing me with every inch until my back is bruised from the metal rings propping me up.
He stops for a moment—just long enough to pull his shirt off—and when I see the clean lines of the tattoos that wrap around his chest and shoulders, I know I’m in way over my head. This guy is dangerous. He’s going to chew me up and spit me out…and I’m probably going to beg for every second of it.
We’re both panting as he rips my shirt open.
I watch one of the buttons bounce off his rippling chest, and the way I feel when I look up to see his eyes traveling along the top
edge of my bra makes me gush.
His lips are on mine again a second later as his big hands push my shirt off my shoulders.
I bend my fingers around the edge of his waistband and pull him against me, the longing burning my body from head to toe.
He grabs my hair and pulls my head back, kissing me deeper as his free hand splays against my chest, his fingertips curling around the delicate flesh of my neck until my body is so weak I’m not sure if he’s holding me up or pinning me down.
He kisses my throat and slides a palm over my breast and down my body, his touch igniting my flushed skin.
“Geo,” I whisper as he yanks the bottom of my skirt up my thighs. My head falls to the side when he backs his hips up and sticks his hand between my legs, his fingers so thick I’m as nervous as I am excited. I’m expecting him to be rough, but his hand slows for a second like it has a mind of its own, and the way his fingertips tease the outside of my underwear is so torturous I feel I might cry.
He plants his lips on mine again, kissing me in time with the gentle lapping of pleasure his fingers apply to my clit, but just as I get used to the rhythm, he growls into my throat and pulls my thong down my thighs.
My breath hitches when his bare hand touches me there, and my eyelids grow heavy as he slides his fingertips through my silk. “Oh, Ruby,” he whispers. “I am going to tear you open.”
He pushes his fingers inside me then, reaching so deep I’m sure his wrist is wet, and he finger-fucks me so good I forget myself and cry out. His free hand covers my mouth then, and he locks eyes with me as he churns my insides, scooping me out like he’s digging for something—and then he finds it. My G-spot.
My eyes flash when he touches it, and I can see from the way his grow wide that his discovery is no accident. He beats his fingers against it until I’m pouring over him and whimpering into his palm.
I want to tell him I’m close, that he’s going to make me come, but there’s no point. He can see it all in my half-closed eyes, and soon my legs are shaking. He smiles like I’m giving him exactly what he wants.
One of my legs buckles, but I don’t fall. Instead, I’m held up by his focused fingers and further blown away by how good it feels to let him have his way with me. Then he crushes his thumb against my swollen clit.
