Love Is In the Air Volume 1

by Susan Stoker

  Cara was officially her ex-best sister for this predicament.

  Saoirse didn’t make a habit of landing in men’s beds. Of course, she didn’t party like she was still a college student, either. But she’d had a craptastic week, from having to vacate to a hotel for a week because her upstairs neighbors forgot they were running a bath and flooded her floor (who does that?) to her Dean wondering why she wasn’t publishing more papers. Never mind that he called her field of study, Egyptology, a “dying cultural interest point.”

  She had deserved more than a green beer. She certainly deserved more than waking up with the leprechaun man.

  She was going to have to look, wasn’t she? Maybe it’d be a funny story she could tell, oh, about ten years from now. Hey, remember that time I boinked a leprechaun?

  Her head fell to the right to see the star of her future story, and oh, sweet Jesus.

  She shoved his arm off her and lurched up to sitting, which was a mistake as her head nearly split in two from the sudden movement.

  “Lachlan, wake up!” Her shout made her forehead throb even more.

  “Wha…?” He rolled onto his back and threw his forearm over his eyes.

  She kicked her foot at his calf. “Get. Up.”

  “No.”

  Did men never change? Clearly not. “No” remained Lachlan’s favorite word. As for the rest of the man lying next to her? He had the same dark hair, same small scar near his hairline, but the chest did not belong to the Lachlan she’d broken up with her senior year at Notre Dame. It was too puffed up with pec muscles and man hair.

  She jostled his shoulder. “How did I get here?” A wisp of green fell in her face. She grabbed the errant strand of hair. Yeah, go wild with the hair, Saoirse, Cara had said. It doesn’t make you look like a walking corpse, she’d said.

  He cracked one eye open and chuckled. “Go back to sleep.” He moved to roll over.

  She grasped his bicep—his very firm bicep. “Did we? I mean…”

  He rotated back toward her and smirked. “You don’t remember our night of you screaming out my name?”

  “Get serious.” She clutched his sheets to her. The man had seen his fair share of her body, but that’d been a while ago—a good six years at least. “I could never.”

  “That’s not exactly what a man wants to hear in the morning,” he reproached.

  She kicked him again for good measure. “Lachlan!”

  “Ow.” He laughed at her. Laughed.

  She tossed her pillow at him, which he blocked.

  “Relax.” He eased up on his elbows. “You slept. I slept. No one got lucky.”

  “Then how did I get like this?” She waved her hand over her legs.

  He rolled his eyes at her. “You don’t remember? Let’s just say I don’t recall you being so much fun.” His lopsided grin she’d once loved—once—spread across his face.

  She scoffed—and she’d have rolled her eyes right back at him if they didn’t feel like little lead balls rolling around in her head.

  “Come on. I’ll recap over coffee.” He lurched up to sitting on the side of the bed, leaned down, and grabbed clothing from the floor because, of course, he’d dropped everything there. Yep, little change there, too.

  “Recap now while you’re getting me my clothes.”

  He tugged sweatpants over his legs and turned, giving her a view of his chest again.

  “Now that’s…” He pointed at her with his T-shirt in his hand. “… the Saoirse I remember.”

  “What are you talking about?” She scooched to the edge of the bed and stood, making sure the sheet came with.

  “The proud Saoirse. The ooh, I couldn’t possibly do that Saoirse.” He made jazz hands.

  Making fun of her? And she’d once wondered why she and Lachlan ever broke up?

  She huffed, yanked the sheet around her in a dramatic flourish, and marched toward the bathroom. Only behind the door, she found a closet with two long, deep rows of men’s suits and starched white shirts. A spicy men’s aftershave made her nose tickle, and she nearly sneezed.

  She backed up, but his body stopped her. Her bare shoulder brushed against the hair on his chest and she shivered.

  She twisted around. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” She clutched the sheets tighter to her chest.

  “I’ve seen it all before, remember? Except…” His gaze ran all over her body, smirk in place. “What have you been doing? You look amazing.”

  “I always looked this amazing.” She pushed past him and her gaze roamed the room. She had walked in here wearing something, hadn’t she? “Clothes?”

  “Washer. Thanks for waiting until we got to the bathroom before you upchucked.”

  Oh, great. Of all the men to see her head bent over the porcelain goddess it had to be him. Lachlan. Frickin. McCreary. Right then, waking up next to the leprechaun man was looking really good.

  “I’ll get you something to wear. Your clothes should be dry soon.” He tossed his T-shirt into a laundry bin in the corner and then pointed to a door on the other side of the room. “Bathroom is that way.”

  Good, because she desperately had to pee—and defuzz her teeth.

  When she was done, Lachlan had vanished, but an old Notre Dame sweatshirt and some sweatpants were laid out for her. They nearly swallowed her body when she pulled them on, but they’d do until her jeans and top were out of their washer hostage situation. With any luck, her bra was among them.

  A loud hissing sound and waft of heavenly java from down the hallway lured her like a siren. She would trade a limb for coffee.

  She hobbled to his kitchen, one hand clasping her bottoms so they wouldn’t slide down her legs. Thankfully, he handed her a cup of steaming coffee immediately. “Thanks.”

  He leaned against the counter, crossed his legs, his bare torso on display. “Good to see you, Saoirse. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  She tightened her hold on her waistline because no more seeing. “Yes, it has. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Well, it is my place.” His big, wide, lopsided grin was goading her.

  Her gaze roamed his apartment, more to keep her eyes from his smirk and his pecs, proudly on display. A dark blue linen sectional couch sat in the center of an open floor plan, and walls were lined with tall bookshelves stuffed with books. It was classy.

  She glanced back at him. “Nice digs. How’d I end up in it?”

  “Some guy was getting handsy with you last night. I intervened.” He shrugged, set his cup down on the counter.

  Last night’s crowd was a big splotchy blur in her memory—just lots of green and Irish music wafting through the air. Leaving the bar at all was a giant blank. “That’s it?”

  “Well, there was that matter of you getting up on stage to give your fire dance impression. Then, there were the chest shimmy lessons to the guys in green face paint.” He chortled. “Classic. And then—”

  She raised her hand to stop him because, oh, why yes, things could get worse than waking up in your ex-boyfriend’s bed, nearly naked.

  “What about Cara? No, wait, don’t tell me. She’d left me there for some guy she’d met.”

  “Something like that. She knows you’re here. I messaged her.”

  “You exchanged numbers?” That was a switch in relations. Cara had been thrilled when they’d broken up, insisting Saoirse could do better in the man department. Then again, Cara believed her soulmate could be found in a sports bar.

  “If you call grabbing my phone and typing in Goddess in the Making into my contacts, yes.” He poured himself more coffee and lifted the pot her way.

  She held out her cup. “And then what?”

  “You suddenly wanted to leave and two guys tried to stop you. So, I scooped you up and brought you here.”

  “How noble.”

  “Listen, girl, I did not hoist you over my shoulder waiting for you to spew all over my back for my health.”

  “Hoist?” Lachlan didn’t hoist. He s
at in front of his video games until his thighs became one with his game chair—the one piece of furniture he’d spent money on.

  “Yes. You were a tad incoherent and saying something about a hotel. You couldn’t give me the name.” His arm flexed as he moved to set the coffee pot back in its place. “You grew… agitated.”

  “Probably from being thrown over a shoulder. But thank you. For saving me from the…” she waved her hand in the air. “… leprechauns.”

  “So, she can say thank you. What do you know?” He puffed out a half-laugh, leaned back against the counter. His sweatpants hung off his hips and his broad chest stared at her like a neon sign that screamed worship me. He was way too good at this casual morning thing. He looked like a walking meme for Saturday morning-afters.

  Crap, she hadn’t checked herself in the mirror before coming out. Her hair must be a rat’s nest. She casually tried to run a hand through her hair.

  “You really do look great.” He squinted his eyes at her. “Why did we break up again?”

  As if she’d share some insight into their sudden parting years ago? She took a larger swallow of coffee that nearly scalded her throat. It had to be the reason her eyes suddenly pricked, not because she recalled how easily he’d let her go.

  Their break-up was such a long story it made her tired to even think about it. False accusations about cheating on both sides that turned out to be untrue, but by then, their immature little hearts were so bruised they just kind of walked out on each other.

  Ah, the college years. The age where a sense of immortality lives with no brains and no boundaries. Good times.

  But now he was here—all manned-up with big biceps in a grown-up apartment with excellent taste in coffee. Here.

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Water under the bridge. So, pancakes? Your clothes are still a little wet.”

  They chatted for a bit as he whipped the pancake batter—which made his forearm muscles dance under his skin. She busied herself chopping walnuts and peeling bananas and trying not to sneak glances at said muscles.

  She learned he’d gone into investment banking in Manhattan and was back to open an office here. He probably also ate at hipster restaurants called Fig Leaf or Harvest Moon and booty-called girls with blown-out hair who knew how to walk in four-inch heels.

  She didn’t ask. It’d have been too sad.

  Their lives were as different as water and wine. Her life being the bland water, of course. She moved to Chicago to teach and try to earn her Ph.D. Not exactly scintillating stuff there. Sure, Lachlan asked all the polite questions about her field and commiserated with her recent academic troubles, but that was just manners.

  She turned to put the chopped walnuts into a bowl of batter at the same time he turned to the sink. Their butts bumped and a giggle erupted from her throat. But Jesus. Now his ass was on her mind because it was hard—like bodybuilder concrete.

  “I don’t remember doing this with you… before,” she said quickly before her brain went too far afield.

  “Doing what?”

  “Being in the kitchen. Mornings.” She thought a lot about having these kinds of days. Waking up with her guy, sipping espresso, hair scrunched up in a messy bun that made her look like a Goddess. In her fantasy, she wasn’t wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt and sweatpants that threatened to pool at her feet if she didn’t hitch them back into position every minute.

  “Back then, I didn’t know how to do the morning after well. But I do now.” There went that tilted smile again at her.

  “You do a lot of morning afters, I suppose?”

  “Not so much. You?” He poured a big spoonful of batter into the pan, igniting a delicious sizzle.

  “Can’t you tell? First thing I did was kick you to wake you up.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, smirk in place. “Yeah, well, you probably thought I was the leprechaun man.”

  “In which case, it would have been self-defense.”

  “You never did like being woken up…” He inched closer. “How about now?”

  His words held something veiled and provocative but she wasn’t sure she could go there. “It depends on the reason.”

  “Yeah. Some things are worth losing sleep over.”

  A long beat of silence stretched between them. Now that they stood so close together—she clutching her sweatpants, he holding a kitchen utensil—it was ridiculous that prickles ran up and down her spine.

  Why couldn’t he still be skinny but have lost all this hair by now? Instead, he had those muscled divots in his abdomen leading down to an Adonis V that surely God invented to distract women.

  Then to rescue her from some lecherous leprechauns? Not to mention hold her head over a toilet and finally know how to turn on a clothes washer? There truly was no justice in the world.

  She cleared her throat. “You cook a lot?” she squeaked out.

  “I’ve developed some mad skills since you last slept naked with me.” He winked, which turned her knees to goo. The immediate response was dangerous. He might have to do more hoisting of her—this time off the floor.

  It wouldn’t be so bad, though, would it?

  And off went her mind to swim in the memories. They’d shared some fun skills in bed in those college years. Their make-up sex, in particular, had been spectacular—at least until that last night when he just walked away.

  As he brewed another pot of coffee, she minded the pancakes more to give her something to do. She flipped them over. Scooped them on to a plate. Tried not to watch Lachlan. That last one was a total losing battle.

  That was the thing about being a little hungover, coming face-to-face with your ex who turned out to be hot, and, quite frankly, not having had any good male attention lately. She had this odd urge to curl her body against his.

  Was she really that shallow? Why, yes, she was. It was his fault. His body kept distracting her, shifting around, making those muscles move.

  “Ready for food?” he asked as he refilled her coffee cup for the fourth time.

  “Starving.”

  “Me, too.”

  His eyes darkened to something she didn’t remember seeing in him before—something wickedly erotic.

  “Never got around to putting in a dining room table.” He put his large hands around her waist and lifted her up to the countertop.

  Oh, my. Hoist, indeed. So, of course, her thighs widened a bit purely in appreciation of his strength.

  A plate of pancakes appeared next to her, which he immediately doused with syrup. He cut into them with a fork and lifted a huge bite of pancake dripping with sugary goodness to her mouth. She took the offering, the sweet and carbs bursting on her tongue like manna from heaven.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Mmm.” She nodded. “Good.”

  He gave her more.

  “Not having any?” she asked after swallowing.

  He slowly shook his head, served her yet another huge mouthful.

  It was kind of turning her on—all this attention mixed with all the gliding manly muscles. Or maybe it was from the considerable bulge that pressed against the front of his sweatpants.

  She raised a hand to stop him—and to warn him not to move any closer because her lady parts had begun to coo and her brain was, well, nowhere near her body by this time.

  “I thought you loved pancakes,” she said. I thought you’d loved me.

  Oh, come on. That thought just had to interrupt her pancake tongue orgasm.

  He set the fork down, then placed his hands alongside either of her legs. “I do. I always have. Tell me again, why…” His torso slipped between her knees. It felt familiar in a way. He felt familiar. That toss of dark hair across his forehead was the same but his face was sharper, the angles of a man replacing the rounded edges of a boy—the one she’d loved with all her heart.

  She knew what his last “why” was all about. But she couldn’t talk about their last day together. Not because she didn’t have the
words but because a vise had a hold of her throat and her chest.

  He swiped her bottom lip with his thumb and he sucked on it. “Sweet.”

  His face grew blurry in her vision. Why had they broken up? Why had neither of them broken their silent-treatment stalemate? They wanted to see who would cave first? It all seemed so silly now.

  She shivered a little and instinctually moved closer to his heat. The swell behind his sweatpants brushed her thigh. How about more like a thick bar?

  As soon as her body met all that muscle against her—and once again that hard-on that he seemed completely, unabashedly okay with—her legs grew restless. She scissored them alongside his thighs as if that would dull the slow ache between them. How about more like an invitation for him to do more?

  And now his face was in her hair, in her neck, his breath warming her skin further. Invitation accepted.

  “You smell good,” he growled.

  Calm down, she told her body. But then his erection kept pressing into her crotch, and what was a girl to do?

  If they kept going, he wouldn’t truly be a one-night stand, would he? He was a known quantity. They’d grown up. Their past was in the past—sort of. And it was modern times, for God’s sake. She could sleep with whomever she wanted.

  They shouldn’t go any further. She could be strong. She could be on his countertop, with him pressed between her legs being all manly and muscly and smelling spectacular, and not do a thing about it. She could.

  “You’re overthinking things aren’t you?” His voice rumbled in her ear. “Whether or not it’s a good idea to put your hands on me? I want you to.”

  Well, he could want all he wanted.

  He pulled back “I’m asking you to.” He wasn’t smirking.

  How was she to resist that? Her vagina had cobwebs, but he was doing a pretty damn good job brushing them aside with his words.

  Also seeing Lachlan so… well, solicitous just wasn’t something she was prepared for. She was prepared for the old Lachlan—the guy who ate leftover pizza out of the box, not pour batter onto an All-Clad pan holding a Williams and Sonoma spatula. This guy was somebody entirely different.