Learning to Love the Heat

by Everly Lucas

  Deciding that politeness isn’t worth the risk, I send Ben a weak-ass wave. He drops his hand, shoving it in the back pocket of his shorts, and I feel a slight pang of guilt.

  “Claire Templeton. Nice to meet you.”

  Oh, good lord. Claire Templeton? What do I think this is, a job interview? Am I so out of practice with meeting new people I’ve forgotten the normal way to go about it?

  Well, it’s been a couple years, so…yeah.

  Ben chuckles but takes pity on me by making his own formal introduction. “Ben Cohen.”

  Able to get a good look at him now, I have to lock my jaw to keep it from dropping open. The man is handsome. Too handsome. Beautiful, really, but in a scruffy, masculine kind of way.

  I’m tall, but Ben’s taller, probably by a good half foot, so I’m testing the limits of my neck’s bendiness to look up at him from where I sit. And yet, I can’t not look. His unbuttoned linen shirt gives an unobstructed view of his lightly tanned skin and toned stomach. And he’s not wearing a belt, so his cargo shorts hang low on his hips, showing off a few inches of a treasure trail my long-deprived eyes can’t help traveling.

  Kicking off his sandals, he takes a seat a couple feet from me and stretches out his long legs.

  Well, that’s damn presumptuous of him.

  “I don’t remember inviting you onto my blanket.” In fact, I don’t remember even remotely considering it.

  “No, and I didn’t think you were going to, so I invited myself,” he says as if that’s perfectly acceptable reasoning.

  “Uh huh…”

  And that’s about all I can manage to say. I blame his sweet smile for that—the damn thing knocks me completely off kilter. It accentuates the finely etched lines at the corners of his moss green eyes. The shallow creases lead me to guess he’s at least in his mid-thirties, about a decade older than me.

  His dark blond hair is pulled back in a bun—something I find incredibly sexy on a man. No one can ever know that, though. I’m the only one allowed to judge me for my shameful desires.

  “Your dog is adorable,” I say to fill the silence I just made awkward by blatantly checking him out. I rest my hand on Cannoli, who’s serving as a convenient barrier between me and his attractive owner.

  “I wish he were mine, but no. He belongs to my friend, Andy… Andy DelVecchio.” The corners of Ben’s lips twitch, and I shoot him a warning glare, daring him to let those lips curl up into the mocking smile I know he’s fighting.

  He nods in the direction of a tall, dark, and heavily muscled half-naked guy. Andy, who’s apparently been watching us this entire time, flashes a kilowatt smile and waves. I shoot him a half-smile back.

  Not that I was planning on talking to any men today—or any other day, for that matter—but I’m glad Ben’s the one sitting on my blanket, and not Andy. That man looks…intense.

  “He’s a lucky guy,” I say. “Cannoli’s pretty awesome.”

  “Don’t let Andy hear you say that. His philosophy is, ‘Luck is for the lazy.’ One day he decided he wanted a dog, so he visited every shelter in Philly until he found the perfect one.” Ben rests his hand on said perfect dog’s neck, just inches from my mine. The closeness startles me, and I pull back, tucking my hands under my thighs, where they’re nice and safe.

  Andy’s whistle slices through the din of the park. Cannoli perks up and runs to his owner, and I frown at the loss of my furry friend and physical buffer. Now there’s nothing but empty, easily breachable space between me and Ben.

  Feeling a sudden, acute awareness of my near-naked state, I grab my dress and slip it over my head. I’d taken it off a few minutes ago when the air reached an unbearable level of saturation. I came here to cool off, after all, not sweat through my clothing. But being in just my bathing suit in the middle of the city is one thing. Being in just my bathing suit in the middle of the city while talking to a hot guy is way beyond what I’m equipped to handle.

  “And what about you?” I ask, once my armor’s back in place. “What’s your philosophy?”

  “I don’t know. Let me think about that.” He strokes the light stubble at his jawline, playing at being deep in thought, then shakes his head. “Nah. Everything I come up with just sounds corny or platitudinous.”

  He says that last word in all seriousness, so I give him a few seconds to laugh at himself. The wry self-deprecation I’m expecting never comes.

  “Did you just use platitudinous in a sentence? In casual conversation?” I try to keep the smile off my face to make my disgust more believable, but the darn thing just won’t budge. “What kind of freak are you?”

  Grabbing my clip, I twist my hair back on top of my head, tucking my sunglasses up there, too. A breeze dries the sweat clinging to the back of my neck, and I close my eyes in sweet relief. When I reopen them, Ben’s watching me with lusty eyes and slightly parted lips.

  Oh, no. None of that, pretty boy.

  I scoot back a few inches, needing a little extra space in order to feel safe again. This snaps Ben out of his trance, and he refocuses with zero effort.

  “I had this teacher in middle school. He was eccentric, but he was by far the smartest person I knew back then. At the start of class each day, he’d write a new ‘two-bit word’ on the board.”

  “And platitudinous was one of them.”

  “Yep.” He puts extra pop in the P, making it impossible not to giggle at him. And I’m not one for giggling. “Did you know that the plastic things at the ends of shoelaces have a name?”

  Not that I’ve ever given it much thought, but I guess I always figured they were included in the greater shoelace classification. Now I’m curious. “Pray, tell me, Ben. What are the plastic things at the ends of shoelaces called?”

  “Aglets,” he says with a flourish of his hands like he just performed some nerdy magic trick. “There you go—your first two-bit word.”

  This man is truly something else.

  “Is this how you pick up women? ‘Hey, baby. I’ll give you a word if you give me a kiss.’”

  “I prefer cash, but if you don’t have any on you, I’ll settle for a kiss.” He flashes that boyish grin of his and tucks some loose strands of hair behind his ear.

  So pretty…

  “Oh, you’ll settle for a kiss, huh? How very generous of you.” Reaching into my bag, I pull out a dollar bill and thrust it at him. “Lucky for both of us, I have cash.”

  Ben looks at my money like it offends him on a personal level. “First one’s always free. That’s how you hook ‘em. Tomorrow, you’ll be begging me for more.”

  “They do say words are the latest epidemic, more pervasive and deadly than meth or heroin.” Maintaining my serious-face is getting to be a real struggle, but I’m holding it together. For now. “Just tell me you’re not pushing them at schools, or I’ll have to alert the authorities.”

  “Oh, you didn’t know? The schools are in on it. Hell, the whole Department of Education has its dirty hands in the word trade.” He lowers his voice to a whisper, his eyes shifting back and forth to make sure no one’s within earshot. “I shouldn’t have told you that. They have spies everywhere.”

  I give him an exaggerated double-wink, because I’m apparently winking at men, now. “How do you know I’m not one of them?”

  His eyes go wide as saucers, and he slaps his hands over his heart as if I just stabbed him in it. “Oh, the betrayal!”

  The horrified look on his face shatters my resistance, and the laughs I’ve been holding back break free. Laughing feels crazy good, like coming home from a three-year business trip to Siberia, but the silence that follows is too vulnerable. It frees my brain up to realize that, not only was Ben flirting with me, but I was flirting back.

  My stomach drops. I haven’t flirted with a new guy in years, and both my body and my brain are telling me I’m nowhere near ready for it. I hug my knees to my chest and cross my ankles, hoping Ben’s not completely inept at reading such obvious body language.

&
nbsp; His smile dulls a little, but he doesn’t give any other indication he’s discouraged.

  “Tell me something about yourself,” he says, shifting back to lean against the big maple, putting additional distance between us.

  Grateful for the extra breathing room and the change in topic, I hold up my book as evidence. “I read a lot.”

  “No, tell me something I wouldn’t be able to guess.”

  “You don’t understand—I read a lot. If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve read close to two hundred books so far this year.”

  Based on that stat, he probably he thinks I have no life. I mean, sure, that’s an accurate assumption, but did I have to go and make myself sound so pathetic?

  He takes the book from my hand to get a better look, and a knowing smirk forms on his face. Of course, he’s smirking. On the cover is a sexy man, naked from the waist up and covered in tattoos, with a guitar strapped to his back. I know exactly what Ben’s thinking…and he’d be right, which makes me want to smack him.

  Judging me with his pretty green eyes, he asks, “Two hundred like this one?”

  I sneer at him and snatch my book back. “Not just like this one. Similar, yes, but I read about more than just charismatic rock gods.” Occasionally, they’re doctors or football players or business executives—all very respected professions.

  “Okay, great. Then can I borrow your copy of Origin of the Species? I lost mine.”

  I toss my beloved paperback at his impudent head, but it falls short and lands in his lap. He doesn’t move it, just laughs at my complete lack of athletic ability.

  Why the hell am I still talking to this guy? Oh, yeah, because I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun with another person. Usually, my fun is of the solo variety and involves binging on brownie batter and Golden Girls reruns.

  “So what if I don’t own anything dense or didactic? When I read for pleasure, it’s not to learn, it’s to escape.” I instantly regret the extra weight I place on that last word, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “What are you escaping from?” the observant jerk asks.

  “Nope. You don’t know me well enough to ask that question, let alone expect an answer.” I stick my tongue out at him, and he laughs at my childish behavior, causing his abdominal muscles to flex a couple dozen times. I have to forcibly rip my eyes from them, and it stings like a bitch.

  Moving on… “Your turn.”

  “My turn what?” he asks, playing dumb. When my only response is an impassive look, he gives in. “Fine. Something about me… Well, I’m half-French. My mother grew up in Provence, and she made sure I learned the language.”

  He looks sheepish at his confession. I’m not sure why. What woman wouldn’t want a man who can speak to her fluently in the language of love?

  “You know what my next question is going to be, right?”

  “Please don’t make me do it.” He groans, and his hands fly up to cover his face, but not before I see all the red flooding his cheeks.

  Poor guy. I shouldn’t put him on the spot like this, but I can be stubborn and callous when I want something. Not everything you hear about redheads is a myth.

  He makes me wait a few beats before lowering his hands, resigned to his fate.

  “Je suis fou de toi.”

  The intensity of his gaze makes my stomach flip. I just can’t tell if it’s a good flip or a bad one. Not that it matters—even good flips are bad in my messed-up world.

  His voice sounds different speaking his second language, rolling much more naturally off his tongue. I wish I knew anything about French, so I could google what he just said, but my dumb ass took four years of German in high school. Whatever it was, it sounded seductive as fuck coming from his mouth.

  A shiver runs through me, and I hug my knees tighter. I have to clear the tension from my throat before I can speak again. “That was beautiful.”

  He says nothing in return, just smiles.

  “Why’d you go all shy on me?”

  Ben shifts in discomfort and picks pieces of bark off one of the roots sticking out of the ground. “I normally don’t tell people about the French thing. It feels too much like bragging.”

  Color me confused, but… “Aren’t you the one who brought it up?”

  His guileless eyes catch me off guard, and I have to look away before I do something stupid, like hold his hand. “I wanted to impress you.”

  Oh.

  “Well, you did. That is, I mean…yeah. I’m impressed.” I try to sound as cool and unaffected as possible, but that was a lost cause from the first time he smiled at me.

  I can’t let him think I’m into him or encourage him in any way. The feeling is unsettling and unfamiliar—wanting to keep him around but needing to keep him from getting too close. I must be striking the right balance, though, because he’s still on my blanket.

  You’re a strange man, Ben Cohen.

  We fall into effortless conversation, shooting the shit for hours about nothing at all. My ex and I didn’t talk this much in our last six months together, combined. What more was there to say? I hated the words he kept repeating, and he never wanted to hear any real honesty from me, so why bother?

  But Cameron isn’t allowed to take up any of my head space today. Hell, even the heat’s been relegated to the back burner of my mind.

  Take that, Summer. Ben and Claire for the win!

  I lose track of time, but the lamps are on in the park when I feel the first drop of rain hit my shoulder. Thunder cracks, the sky rips open, and the thick scent of ozone permeates the air. Ben and I jump up, and he helps me as I scramble to gather my things. Once I’m all packed and there’s nothing left for us to do, we stop and look at each other.

  He’s head-to-toe drenched, his white shirt now see-through and plastered to his ridiculously fit body. It still hangs open, so I’m treated to—and tortured by—the sight of the all that toned, tan flesh streaked with shiny rivulets of rainwater, like tinsel on a sexy Christmas tree.

  For maybe a millisecond, at most, I imagine using my tongue to catch one of the errant raindrops trickling down the valley at the center of his abs. And then, you know, catching the rest of them, because I’m thorough like that. After that fraction of a second has passed, I spend at least ten full ones beating back that fantasy.

  I don’t even want to think about what I look like right now. I’m wearing white, too, so my dress must be in the same state as his shirt. Funny thing is, Ben’s not ogling my body the way I ogled his. No, his eyes haven’t left my face…which grows hotter the longer we stand here, just staring at each other.

  What happens now? I can’t give him my number—what if he decides to use it? Would I answer if he calls? Probably not. But I haven’t made a new friend in so long, and something deep in my gut says he would be a good one. If we can keep it at just that, nothing more.

  Ben is the one to break the silence. “Want to come back to my place? Just to hang out. I don’t expect anything, Claire.” His voice is small, hesitant, as if that one question could negate all the awesomeness of this day.

  The sound of fat, heavy drops of summer rain pelting the maple leaves on their way to the ground creates a dome of deafening white noise. Like television static, but more nature-y. It blocks out every other sound, yet Ben’s question manages to come through loud and clear.

  Do I want to go back to his place? Do I want to hang out with him? Can I trust he won’t try for more than I’m able to give? The man asked one simple question, yet here I am, reading into it like it’s an entire freaking novel. And not the fun, sexy kind.

  My instincts tell me I should believe him. After our initial flirtiness, he took my cues and didn’t push any further. Plus, he’s way too hot to have to resort to such elaborate, underhanded measures to trick a woman into his bed—unless he really likes a challenge. And if that’s the case, he’s hit the mother lode with me.

  Take a chance, Claire. You know you want to.

  There’s a strong po
ssibility I’ll regret this later, but I’m feeling a rare surge of bravery, and I want to take advantage of it before it dies its inevitable, gruesome death.

  “Do you have air conditioning?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  Well, that settles that.

  “Let’s go.”

  Four

  Ben

  As soon as Claire said yes, we took off running. To her surprise, we stopped less than a quarter-mile from the park, on a narrow, tree-lined block of beautifully maintained Trinity houses. This area of Philadelphia is money, and by the look on her face, I doubt she thought I had any. Since I currently resemble a hipster whose music festival got rained out, I can’t exactly blame her.

  When we reached my house, I unlocked my red front door, bypassed the first-floor apartment, and led her up the wooden staircase. And now I’m standing in the kitchen, waiting for Claire as she dries off in the bathroom and trying to think of ways to talk to a girl I’m attracted to without making the attraction obvious. Well, without making it more obvious than it already is.

  Leaning over the island countertop, I trace veins of gold in the Bordeaux granite, trying to work out how to keep my cool around Claire. All my one-track mind can come up with is the image of her bent over this cool slab of rock as I pound into her for hours on end. Not helpful.

  I hear the familiar creak of the stairs before I see her, but once I do, I have to grip the countertop to keep from acting out the fantasy I was just having.

  She’s wearing the clothes I left out for her—one of my v-neck t-shirts and a pair of boxers. The shirt looks more like a tent on her delicate frame, but that barely even registers. All I can focus on is that she’s not wearing a bra underneath. As she soaks up the rain from her hair with one of my bathroom hand towels, I watch a few drops break free and land on the pale slope of her perfect breasts.