Flirty Thirty (Nerdy Thirties Book 1)

by Cassie Mae

  My mouth pools so suddenly that I have to gulp, and I struggle to maintain the teasing tone I’ve grown accustomed to in his presence. “Do you have any more chicken?”

  He blinks himself free from his thoughts, grinning as if he didn’t just imagine me in some kinky housewife-type fantasy. “Don’t think it’s salvageable, huh?”

  “I’m not eating it.” I laugh, poking at the burnt mess with a fork.

  “Damn.” His shoulders slump next. “I used it all.”

  His body is so close that the heat from the leftover smoke isn’t the only heat that’s causing my skin to flush. Taking a step back to keep my wits about me, I lean against the kitchen island and tap my nails near the cutting board.

  “What else you got?”

  He shrugs, slapping the dishtowel against the island by my hip. “Whey protein.” His shoulders shake as he laughs at my grimace. “Feel like take-out?”

  A sigh of relief deflates my entire body. “Please.” I tear the apron off, slapping it onto the island watching as disappointment fills his expression as I strip myself from the domestic item.

  In a moment of complete curiosity, I unbutton the top button of my pencil skirt and let my tummy loose—something I normally do the second I get home from work, but I’ve held that in for the sake of saving present company from seeing me so Homer Simpson.

  Cooper confirms my theory, his lips turning up at the sight of me completely letting go, a rush of heat rising behind those blue irises. I’m so not used to these kinds of reactions to such simple, very human-like things. I wonder if I burped if he’d whisk me away for a night of torrid lovemaking.

  His eyes lift to meet mine. “Also… I do have a chef. I’m reminded of why.”

  I chuckle, nodding at his very accurate assessment of his cooking skills. Not that I can talk. Chicken Parm would be a little too advanced for me as well.

  “I’m gonna get out of these,” I tell him, gesturing to my realtor wardrobe. On my way up the staircase, I make my dinner requests over my shoulder. “I like Hawaiian pizza and stuffed cheesy bread. Or if you go the Chinese route, I like mandarin chicken and beef and broccoli.”

  “You sure you don’t need help getting out of those?” he calls up after me. I answer by tossing my jacket clean over his adorable face. I have a few theories I want to test tonight, and that smile will weaken my resolve to keep my distance long enough to prove their validity.

  ***

  Any given weekday night, I’d have my feet kicked up on the coffee table, an overlarge, holey shirt draped over my braless bosom, and boxer shorts. Tom and Kat would join me as I flicked through my streaming options and gorged on a party size bag of peanut butter M&Ms. This night, however, is far from the norm.

  I know I’m supposed to be playing wifey. Not just any wifey, but a longtime wifey. My single life attire would be appropriate in that relationship, because by then the two individuals have seen more than they’ve bargained for, and seeing that would be expected. Maybe anticipated.

  It’s why I’m not donning the “vegging” look tonight. Because I believe Mr. Family Man is turned on more by that version of me than the one I actually put an effort into. Thinking back to that first kiss, no wonder he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I was the living embodiment of frumpy.

  I’m not dissing that look in the slightest, or anyone who is attracted to such a thing, I just honestly haven’t met a soul who is, or at least stayed with them long enough to find out. So I pulled out all the stops tonight just to see if he’d find a tight dress, makeup, dolled up curls, and stilettos as attractive as pajamas.

  Smoothing my dress down my body, I nibble at my lip and start having second thoughts about the form-fitting attire. I’ve gotten compliments on it before, many times actually. Witnessed blind dates dropping their jaw and then grinning like an idiot the rest of the evening. I even dubbed it my “get lucky” dress at one point, but in the well-lit master bathroom, I start to doubt my sex appeal, especially if I don’t get as epic of a reaction from Cooper as I do from slipping an apron on.

  “I look okay, right?” I ask Kat who’s perched on the counter, pawing at one of my hair ties. Since she’s not the best girl to get an honest opinion from, I grab my phone, snap a bathroom pic, and then send it to Holland.

  Hawt!

  I clack back, Promise??

  You have no idea how jealous I am, she writes. I miss lucky dresses.

  I send her a thank you along with a reassurance that she looks adorable with her baby belly and fight the temptation to tell her to stop complaining since I doubt she’ll ever find herself buying the same pants size as me, maternity section and all. But as she often reminds me, I got the dream boobs so I’m the one who can’t complain. The grass really is always greener… but just wait until her pregnancy chest comes in. Then she really will have it all.

  Feeling not exactly confident, but confident enough with my choice of wardrobe, I connect my phone to the charger and let my heels sink into the soft carpet as I cross the room. A wave of nervous energy buzzes up and down my spine, causing a warm flush to settle in my cheeks. I imagine this is how girls felt when they walked down the staircase before prom, their dream date waiting at the bottom and their parents at the ready with a camera, and all they can think is, dear god, I hope I don’t fall on my face.

  I never went to my prom. Just another one of those things I hoped for that never happened.

  The smoke has left the building, now only the soft light of the setting sun filling up the very open concept house. I suck in a breath, not only to hold in my stomach, but so I can concentrate fully on not tumbling face over foot down that intimidating staircase.

  I make it to the main landing with zero damages. Glancing around for my “husband,” I let out a laugh at how silly I feel after my anti-climactic entrance.

  “Hello?” I call out, wondering if he also went upstairs to change out of his smoke-filled clothing. Even if he had, I doubt he’d take as long as I did to get ready.

  “Um… I hate to do this…” his low voice says from the back guest bathroom. Amused and confused, I clack my way over to him.

  “Hate to do what?”

  He pokes his head out, the bottom half of his face covered with his hand. But his eyes do give me an appreciative once over that, if I wasn’t concerned about what’s going on, I’d take the time to compare it to his earlier reaction.

  I raise an eyebrow, and he slowly takes his hand from his mouth, opening wide to show me a very noticeable hole where a back tooth should be sitting.

  I jerk backward. “What the…”

  “I think I need a dentist.”

  A small laugh escapes me. “I’d say so.” I step up to him, touching his face gently to examine the damage. His breath smells fresh and minty, the scent only somewhat distracting me. “Does it hurt?”

  He nods, making a grunting sound of assent through his wide open mouth. “Pwetty sure itsa cwown.”

  “What was that?”

  He relaxes his jaw. “Think I lost a crown while flossing.”

  “Nice to know you floss.”

  He attempts a face at me, but is distracted by what I assume is a ping of pain over the exposed nerve. His hand shoots up to grab his jaw, and his eyes pinch close for a brief moment.

  Having left my phone upstairs, I boldly pat the front pocket of his jeans. He jerks in surprise, but relaxes when he realizes I’m only grabbing his cell. Though, I do run a thumb up a growing muscle accidentally-on-purpose on my journey to extract the phone.

  “Do you have a dentist’s number?”

  He snorts at me like that’s a ludicrous question. I pull out Google, ask him who he has for insurance, and he babbles answers off at me without a shred of hesitation. Full name, social security number, date of birth, dental hygiene history. Having him so willing to share that information has my curiosity reeling, and my lips turn into a wicked grin in the glow of the screen light.

  “Sexually active?” I ask, even if it
’s not part of the questionnaire. He catches on quick, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, his minty breath washing over me.

  “Not currently, but definitely in the near future.”

  I playfully roll my eyes up to him, but there is a rush of heat that rests just below my belly. I press my thighs together and remind myself that he is in too much pain to make “near future” into the present.

  “Okay, I got you in with a Dr. Jenkins at a clinic by my office. They do late emergency work.” I slip his phone into the top of my dress and flick my gaze up to his. Even while clutching at his jaw, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, the look he gives me is so stomach-joltingly gorgeous I lose my train of thought momentarily. He lifts his free hand up, stroking a single finger across my forehead, brushing away a curl.

  A hot shiver runs up my spine, setting off goosebumps up and down my arms. The corner of his lip lifts before there is a slight wince of pain in his expression.

  “Thank you,” he says, almost reverently, his voice low and dripping like honey. I feel it in the depths of my chest, shocking my heart into a frenzied rhythm. I have to swallow hard and blink my gaze away from his to get a grip on myself.

  Smiling my way out of the daze, I playfully tap the back of my hand against his stomach. “Let’s go.”

  He follows me outside, grabbing his wallet and keys while still holding his jaw. I’ve never been a nurturing sort, but I like the idea of taking care of a strong wall of muscle who has been taken down by something as human as a toothache. I don’t blame him; those suckers hurt like a bitch. I’ve had one root canal in my lifetime, and I don’t revel in the idea of experiencing it a second time.

  Saving him from having to squish into my bug, I hold my hands out for the keys to his truck. His bushy eyebrow lifts, and after a reluctant pause in which we have a quiet stand-off, he relinquishes the right to sit behind the wheel of the Mud Monster. I don’t exactly blame him for that either—he has driven with me before. I put Cruella De Vil to shame in terms of aggressive driving, but since he’s putting so much faith in me, I decide that I’m going to be especially careful with his six-figure investment on wheels.

  Cooper gets called back almost immediately after we arrive, the office dead now that it’s after hours. The receptionist offers him an ice pack, and I internally chastise myself for not thinking of that earlier. I chalk it up to the fact that I’m completely out of my element. Have to say, I’ve never gotten to the point in a relationship where I make appointments and escort my SO on errands. If this was part of his plan to show me that sparks will fly even during the mundane, talk about commitment.

  “Don’t let me take Loritab,” he tells me, sliding in to the dentist reclining seat. “It will be your top most regret.”

  I set my hand on the headrest, running my thumb nail over his blond locks. “It sounds like it will provide memorable entertainment.”

  His eyes roll back at my touch, heavy lids closing as I run my fingers through his hair. An amused grin teases the corner of my mouth as he lifts a finger to press it to his lips. “Shh,” he says. “You’ve found my off button.”

  Warmth starts to spread from my fingertips to my thumping heart. Giving him innocent pleasure fascinates and confuses me in equal measure, and a stray thought flies across my mind, a thought I’ve never had before—I could very well have a lifetime of just this and find myself happier than I’ve ever been.

  My fingers pause, tangled in the soft strands of blond and silver. I shake my head hard, closing my eyes even to banish the thought back to where it originated from. Cooper shifts under my hand, and I pull away, opening my eyes and forcing a grin. I’m saved from having to answer the concern in Cooper’s pulled eyebrows when the dentist walks in.

  “Well,” he says, eyes skating over my dress before flicking to Cooper in sympathy. “I bet this isn’t how you expected the night to go.”

  Cooper chuckles, meeting my gaze briefly before answering Dr. Jenkins. “I did have other plans for my mouth.”

  An embarrassed—and I admit, flattered—flush rises up my neck, and I playfully backhand him in the shoulder.

  “That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”

  The dentist chuckles at our banter, settling in to the swivel chair next to Cooper. He slides on a glove and coaxes Cooper’s chin down. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  Cooper opens his mouth so wide that I’m fairly impressed by it, but it’s not surprising. With how often he lets it run, I’d be more surprised if he had a small mouth.

  “Yep, definitely lost that crown.” He pulls his finger from Cooper’s chompers and leans back in his seat to address the both of us. I thought I’d feel uncomfortable, maybe even overstepping my boundaries by being here. Yet, it feels as natural as breathing. That thought is the only thing that makes me shift slightly toward the door.

  “I can put in a temp for now. Cover that nerve while you two continue your evening. Then we can put in a permanent replacement tomorrow afternoon.”

  Cooper shakes his head. “We have plans we can’t break.”

  My brow furrows, and a speck of amusement dusts his blue irises.

  “Babysitting, Maya.”

  “Right.” I laugh, shaking my head at myself. It’s funny how he remembers agreeing to watch my niece and nephew more than I do.

  “Next opening I have is on Monday,” Dr. Jenkins says. “The temp should last the weekend.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll write you a prescription for—”

  “Ibuprofen,” I interject. “Apparently, this guy can’t take anything stronger than that.”

  He chuckles at Cooper nodding like a bobble-head. “All right, then. Let’s get that temp in there. You’ll be back to your date in twenty minutes, tops. Wouldn’t want to waste that spectacular dress on a night here.”

  I smile in appreciation, warmth touching my cheeks as the dentist scopes out my “lucky” attire once more. Cooper lifts an eyebrow up at me. Those blue eyes, while showing how much pain he truly is in, also have a hint of admiration swirling in them.

  “No offense, Doc. But I don’t think it’s the dress.”

  15

  Cruel Birth Control

  “H-holy cow,” Katie says through her wide open mouth. I chalk exhaustion up to the lack of filter. If the mansion wasn’t enough of a shock, the second her eyes land on my housemate she seems to lose coherent thought. She nearly drops the car seat hooked on her arm, and Cooper is quick to relieve her of it.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, then turns that fun-loving, adorable grin to the almost two-month-old in the car seat. “And you too, little man.”

  Katie chokes on what could only be air, and I’m sure Jim would call her out on the gawking if he wasn’t doing the same thing to the TV.

  I bite back a laugh at their reactions, wondering if that is exactly how I looked when I first saw Cooper… and the TV, for that matter.

  Claire seems to be the only one capable of saying anything, and with one hand clinging to Jim and the other pointing straight up at Cooper, she says, “Kitty!”

  Cooper’s brows bunch, and he whips around. “Where?” I stifle my laughter, a snort rumbling my nose at his overreaction. He still hasn’t gotten used to Tom and Kat and has done his best to avoid them entirely. That’s going to change at some point during this experiment, I’m sure of it.

  Katie lets out a shaky laugh that seems to takes her out of her daze. “Sorry. She’s not used to seeing facial hair.”

  Jim tears his eyes from the TV to give his wife a look. My brother has been a giant supporter of the fresh face, mostly for the hygienic aspect. He’s a bit OCD, and any sprout of fuzz along his chin causes his mind to get extremely itchy.

  Cooper grins, crouching down to settle the car seat on the floor and get eye level with my niece. “You like kitties?”

  “No!”

  He faux gasps, then sticks his bottom lip out in a playful pout. I really do wish him luck; that
girl will not be warming up to anyone anytime soon.

  Claire sticks her tongue out and blows a wet raspberry, then scurries past us to destroy whatever room she finds first, singing a song in a language that I swear isn’t English.

  “Claire Liza Baker!” Katie sighs, dropping the diaper bag to the ground. “I’m so sorry,” she apologizes to Cooper. I raise an eyebrow because she’s never apologized for Claire’s behavior around me, but perhaps that’s because I’m family.

  Cooper waves her off, straightening from his crouch. “That’s pretty polite for a two-year-old from what I’ve heard.”

  A crash sounds from the back hallway, and my brother rushes off to see what sort of trouble Claire’s causing. I reach for the good child before I get stuck dealing with the other one. Cooper wants kids? Claire may convince him otherwise, and I’ll prove my point without uttering a single word.

  “There should be enough milk in there for the day,” Katie says as I unbuckle the sweet, quiet, little boy. I may not want babies, but they have the best smell. I cradle his tiny body to my chest, inhaling the fresh scent of baby shampoo off his soft head. He’s so warm and squishy, if they didn’t grow into that chaos creator back there, then I’d be all for making babies.

  “He’s getting a rash under his little balls. So make sure you get the cream on there.” She starts digging around in her bag. “I think I packed the powder… it’s in here somewhere I think. If not, that’s fine. But use the cream. Poor guy hasn’t been sleeping well because of it. Oh! And he is a projectile burper. I’d cover up with more than just a rag after he’s done eating.”

  Got it… make Cooper burp the baby.

  Katie clutches her head, muttering to herself, “What else…?”

  “Relax,” I tell her. “It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

  She laughs, her mouth tired and her eyes at half-mast. I hope my brother treats her to a much needed nap before a much needed romp. But judging by the anxious look in his eyes when he comes back down the hall with Claire on his hip, I highly doubt a nap is anywhere in his mind.