Learning to Love the Heat

by Everly Lucas

  My host must be around here somewhere, and I really need to pee, so I swing my legs over the side of the bed and hop to the floor, landing in a puddle of morning sunlight. A rather large puddle, actually. More like a pond, if we’re getting technical. It floods the room through one of the tall windows on either side of the bed, highlighting Ben’s stunning decor.

  The space is soft without being feminine and simple without being minimalist. The four-poster bed, as well as the other furniture, is some dark wood I have no hope of naming, given my general lack of wood knowledge. The bedding is white and super fluffy, and the floor-to-ceiling window treatments are an expensive-looking damask in a white, navy, and olive watercolor pattern. There’s another red brick wall in here, just like the living room. As if I didn’t envy Ben enough already. All I have is drywall and laminate flooring.

  After I wash my face and take care of necessities, I pad down to the kitchen to grab the rest of last night’s Dr. Pepper out of the fridge. Coffee is gross, and coffee breath is even grosser. I prefer my caffeine to come with artificial flavors and fizz.

  With no sign of Ben, I can only assume he’s abandoned me—a virtual stranger—in his fancy home. For all he knows, I have a criminal record a mile long. And there’s no guarantee his TV will still be here when he—

  “‘Sup, Peach.”

  Gah!

  Once I’ve stopped choking on soda and my heart regains its will to beat, I spin around to find a shirtless man standing by the couch with a pit bull at his feet.

  Ah, this must be Andy. I remember him from the park, but up close he looks…more. More ripped, more tan, more beautiful, more arrogant. When he smiles at me, dimples deep enough to strike oil come out to play.

  Tone it down, dude. You’re hot enough already, and you damn sure know it.

  Ignoring the Italian Stallion, I set my drink on the counter and crouch down to call for my little buddy. Cannoli trots right to me, his tail a dangerous weapon, whipping back and forth. His big puppy-smile puts his owner’s to shame.

  He sticks his nose between my legs—the dog, not the man—and I jump back, red-faced. Andy bursts into booming, full-bellied laughter, clearly finding my molestation hilarious. He takes pity on me, though, ordering Cannoli to heel and getting him an acceptable distance from my crotch. Then he ruins it by fondling my body with his eyes, head to naked toes. His brazenness feels like a challenge, so I size him up, too. Minus the bedroom eyes. I hope.

  He has a generous coating of sweat over every exposed inch of his body, and his hair is soaked through with it. Sounds disgusting, right? And maybe it would be, on anyone who doesn’t look exactly like Andy DelVecchio. On him, sweat works like oil on a bodybuilder, highlighting every blessed hill and valley of his carefully cultivated muscles.

  His only clothing is a pair of black running shorts on top of Under Armour. I’m sure the extra layer is an attempt to keep his package in check while he runs, but even with compression shorts, I can see his bulge, clear as day.

  When my eyes finally make it back to his face, he’s wearing an annoying, conceited grin.

  Please. As if.

  Okay, fine, I admit it. My blood is like libidinous lava in my veins. He’s causing stirrings in places that have avoided stirs for years. But the more he turns my body on, the more my warped brain screams at me to run far, far away.

  “Andy.” I’m not saying hi so much as acknowledging his presence in the room.

  “She knows my name,” he says, smiling triumphantly. His voice is pure bass, like one of those late night radio DJs, making women all over the city collectively cream their panties. “Benny didn’t tell me he had a friend over.”

  “Does Ben check in with you every time he has company?”

  “Nah. But I would’ve bet money he’d’ve told me ‘bout you, Peach.”

  Oh, great. I’ve acquired a nickname. At least he didn’t go with Carrot Top or Fire Crotch, or something else every redhead gets called a trillion times throughout the course of her life.

  “Can I help you with something? Ben’s not here, so if you’re looking for him, you’re out of luck.” I’m hoping he’ll pick up that blatantly dropped hint and skedaddle. Cannoli’s welcome to stay, though.

  “I got no problem waitin’, babe.”

  My heart has a minor freakout as Andy saunters over to where I stand, the front of his body passing within an inch of the front of mine. Even in a space this small, that level of closeness is completely uncalled for. My nipples narrowly avoid coming into contact with the top of his eight-pack abs, and I close my eyes and hold my breath until he’s safely on the other side of the kitchen island from me.

  “May I?” he asks, holding up my Dr. Pepper.

  My mouth pops open, and I’m about to snatch the bottle back when he puts it to his full lips and chugs.

  “You owe me a soda, jackass.” I’ll never collect on that IOU, of course, because that would mean interacting with him again. Once is more than enough, thanks.

  “Are angels supposed to have such dirty mouths?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s what Benny called you yesterday.” His words flood my stomach with anxious butterflies. “He didn’t scream it out when he was inside those pink lips of yours last night?” I gasp and quickly cover my unused mouth with my fingers. Andy just laughs. “Not those lips, Peach.”

  Ugh!

  “Seriously? What is your damage?” I’m sure my face is beet red. He’s riled up my ginger fury, and the smug bastard’s enjoying the hell out of it. “Does Ben know you talk to his women like this?”

  Oh, fuck. Worst word-choice fail ever.

  Andy’s tall, broad body stalks toward me, not stopping until my back hits the fridge. No parts of him touch any parts of me, except the heat radiating off him in waves, crashing against my skin. He’s not caging me in, but I’m incapable of moving, all the same.

  His scent is thick and so very male—a combination of sweat, sandalwood, and what I imagine the sun to smell like. I tilt my head back but not far enough to meet his big, brown eyes. No, my dumb ass ends up looking directly at his lips, and the temptation of them makes me want to cry. I nearly do.

  In a voice so seductive, any other heterosexual woman would drop to her knees and beg to please him, he asks, “Are you Benny’s woman now, Peach?”

  I stop breathing. Andy continues his invasion of my personal space, and my skin starts giving off its own heat. The air between us is stifling, and the back of my neck tingles as it breaks out in a cold sweat. Did Ben’s AC break, or something?

  "You don't strike me as the type of girl who belongs to anyone. Am I right? But no doubt you already own my boy."

  I want to respond, but my senses are overloaded to the point where Andy is all I see, feel, smell, and, somehow, even taste. I’m pretty sure there’s a fifth sense, but my brain’s gone into auto shutdown mode to protect itself from overheating. Any information stored in there is temporarily inaccessible.

  His gaze roams my face, lingering on my lips before meeting my eyes. Something in them clears the hunger from his expression, replacing it with concern. Nodding in answer to a question no one asked, Andy backs off and throws himself down on the middle of the sofa. His cocky grin is back as if it never left.

  Without him so close and causing tension to lock my every joint, my body collapses back against the fridge. Anxiety is a funny thing, the way it messes with the mind. Now that he’s not all up in my face, I reassess what just passed between us. Was he ever as close as I thought he was? Was he really trying to intimidate me with his formidable sexiness, or did my fear blow the whole situation way out of proportion? Probably a little of all three.

  His full wingspan along the back of the couch, his legs casually spread, and his dog at his feet, Andy looks larger than life. As if he weren’t large enough, already. I mean, him as a whole. Not his dick, which, admittedly, also appears to be large.

  Oh, good lord. Stop thinking about the
man’s penis, Claire.

  “You gonna come sit, or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me?”

  “I am so not staring at you.”

  Great job. Very convincing.

  “You so are, babe. But I don’t mind. You sure you don’t want a closer look, though? Better get it in before your man gets back.”

  “Ben’s not my man.”

  Damnit! Why do I continue to let him goad me? And, oh my God, did I really just stomp my foot when I said that? What am I, four?

  “Then how come you got his underwear on?”

  I look down to find that, sure enough, I’m wearing Ben’s clothes like this is some casual sex morning after. In reality, I only went home with Ben because I felt confident there’d be none of that.

  I pop out my hip and rest my hand on it in a totally non-awkward show of sass. “Don’t you worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried, Peach. I’m—"

  “Jealous?” Arching my brow, I challenge him to deny it. Not that I believe it’s true or anything, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Maybe,” he says, a little too much honesty in his voice for my liking. “Besides, you’d look much sexier in my Superman briefs.”

  “You do not have— What am I saying? Of course, you do.” Probably leopard and zebra print ones, too, but it’s best I don’t think too hard about Andy’s underwear. “No offense to you and Ben, but I prefer my own, thanks.”

  “Yeah? I don’t know. You look hot as fuck in those.” He doesn’t take his penetrative gaze off my lower frontal area, and I have to fight the urge to pull my shirt down to put another layer between his X-ray vision and my vagina. “We should do a comparison sometime. I could come to your place later, and you can model all your lingerie for me.”

  No way in hell will this man ever be allowed in my apartment or anywhere near my lingerie.

  “Do you ever tone it down, or is your amp always cranked up to eleven?”

  His approach is merciless. Having a conversation with Andy is as exhausting as running a marathon. I assume. For me, running is reserved for trying to catch the bus or, you know, escaping the rain and seeking shelter in some random guy’s house…then staying there all night. It’s usually the first scenario.

  Andy’s movie star grin lights up the entire room, and it takes a few blinks for my vision to adjust. “Baby, I was born at eleven.”

  “Don’t you think Ben would be pissed if he knew you were so interested in me and my panties?”

  Seriously, though. How are those two even friends? From what I’ve seen, Andy and Ben are completely incompatible. Ben is considerate and sweet and pleasant to be around, and this guy…Yeah, I can’t come up with any words that encompass all that is Andy. Certainly no flattering ones. Except “drool-worthy,” which, for me, is the opposite of a good thing.

  “There’s no harm in it, is there? Not like you’d ever go for a shameless prick like me, right?” He might actually come across as wounded and self-deprecating if he didn’t look so damn proud of himself.

  “You’re not wrong.”

  He’s really not. Not even in my wilder days would I have so much as considered going after Andy. Admired from afar? Absolutely. But men like him are dangerous. If I’m a lit match, Ben is firewood. The burn would be gradual, resulting in a strong and steady flame that’d last through the night. But Andy…Andy’s gasoline. He’d ignite an inferno, and together we’d incinerate everything within a five-mile radius.

  Both fuels used to light me up. Now, they just frighten the hell out of me.

  Six

  Claire

  Salvation comes in the form of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Andy chuckles at my obvious relief, and I shoot him a fierce fuck you with my eyes, making him laugh even harder.

  Ben walks into the room carrying an Old Nelson bag full of food in one hand and a sweating bottle of Dr. Pepper in the other. This man is perfect. Truly perfect. He takes in the scene—Andy sprawled out on the couch and me tucked into the farthest corner of the room—and, boy, does he look pissed.

  “What are you doing here, DelVecchio?” His voice is calm. His face is anything but.

  Andy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, completely unfazed by Ben’s reaction to his unwelcome presence. “I was just gettin’ acquainted with your new friend…” he trails off because the asshole never bothered to learn my real name.

  “Claire. Her name is Claire. And you don’t need to get to know her. It doesn’t look like she’s interested in knowing you.” He looks at me, and I give him a grateful smile.

  Pushing away from the fridge, I move closer the man who has a flawless, twenty-hour track record of not ticking me off.

  “Ouch, Benny. She was warmin’ up to me, I swear.”

  Ignoring the douchebag on the couch, I turn to Ben. “I was not warming up to him.” It’s a lie, but I wish it weren’t, which is close enough to the truth.

  “Am I going to have to kick you out?” Ben asks.

  Andy scoffs. “You can try.” Ben’s a little taller, but Andy’s bulkier. Then again, Ben is super pissed, which might just give him the edge. “Peach wants me here. Dontcha, babe?”

  “If he doesn’t kick you out, I will.” I’m dead serious, even if I sound as threatening as a growly kitten.

  “Your girl’s adorable, Benny. Keep her around, will ya?”

  He stands and stretches, showing off his deeply tanned assets, and I can’t help but gawk. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ben watching me as my cheeks turn bright pink. Yesterday, I was grateful for his ability to read me like a book. Right now, not so much.

  Andy heads downstairs, Cannoli close behind, and the air in the room becomes infinitely more breathable.

  Ben opens his mouth to say something but decides against it. Instead, he unpacks the contents of the shopping bag, and I join him, staying on the other side of the counter.

  This moment feels so awkward, but I have no clue how to fix it.

  “I can’t believe I fell asleep here last night,” I say, in an attempt to break the ice. “Why didn't you wake me up and kick me out?” Which is precisely what I would've done if I were him.

  He shrugs. "You looked like you needed it." The man speaks the truth. "Plus, short of dumping a bucket of ice water on you, I don’t think anything would’ve woken you up." He smiles, sliding my soda across the granite and into my grasping hands.

  "Thanks. And, again, I'm so sorry,"

  I take a big gulp, letting it chill and tickle my throat as we fall into a loaded silence. The loaded part doesn’t make sense, though. It’s not as if I’ve been leading Ben on, or anything. Just the opposite. So why does getting caught checking out his best friend feel like cheating?

  And what happens now? Normal people who've just spent their first night together might eat breakfast, screw one more time, and make plans for more if it was good. So what are Ben and I supposed to do? I’m sure our situation’s never been covered in any advice columns.

  Well, he got all this food, and I’m starving, so we're at least doing the breakfast part.

  "Whatcha get me?" I lean over the counter to get a better look at the spread.

  His eyes fall to the deep V of the shirt I’m wearing, which is probably giving him a fantastic view of my braless cleavage. Straightening up, I ever-so-stealthily adjust the neckline so I’m not quite so exposed. Ben shakes his head as he lines up four different foil-wrapped sandwiches, an amused smile on his face.

  "I wasn't sure what you like on a breakfast sandwich, so I got one of everything.”

  I eyeball my options and snatch up the sausage, egg, and cheese on a croissant. Savory, buttery goodness will go a long way to settling my nerves. Either that, or those nerves will force everything back up, but at least it’ll taste good going down.

  “This is perfect. Thanks.”

  Taking a bigger-than-necessary bite, I use the extra chewing time to formulate a plan. I can’t stay any longer. Besides, I’m sure he’s more tha
n ready for me to leave. What man would want a woman who won’t sleep with him lingering at his place and continuing to not want sex? It’ll be a lot less embarrassing for me if I leave before I’m tossed out.

  Today is Sunday. People do chores and stuff on Sundays, right? Not that I intend to actually do any, but they provide a believable excuse to bug out.

  “I’m gonna have to go after this. My laundry really piled up this week, so…”

  “You don’t have to, Claire. Really. It’s been nice having someone around who isn’t Andy.”

  A lightbulb goes off in my head. “He’s your first-floor tenant?”

  “Yeah. I can’t seem to shake the guy,” he says, with a fondness that doesn’t match his words.

  “Neither could I,” I say under my breath, with no fondness whatsoever. Ben’s eyes go hard and cold, and I worry I’ve said the wrong thing.

  “How much did he bother you? I know you don’t want…and he can be…” He doesn’t need to finish that thought. After just one encounter, I know exactly how Andy can be.

  Ben’s being kind, dancing around his friend’s and my failings. Not that they require pointing out—neither one of us is subtle about it. Subtlety probably isn’t even in Andy’s vocabulary.

  “He was okay.” I wave Ben off, like Andy scaring the breath from my lungs was no big deal. “He just had some misconceptions about where my bubble ended and his began. That’s all.”

  Now I’m the one being kind. Of course, Mr. Observant correctly reads between the lines.

  “I’m going to kill him,” he says in a voice that would put the fear of God in Andy if he were still around to hear it. “I know how much you—"

  I hold up my hand, stopping that sentence in its tracks. “It’s done. He’s gone. I survived the Andy onslaught and lived to tell the tale.” Just thinking about Ben’s best friend stresses me out. I definitely don’t want to talk about him anymore. Forcing a fake smile on my face, I wrap up the remaining half of my sandwich. “I really need to go. But thanks…for everything.”

  Ben’s jaw twitches, and I can tell it wants to open up and spew out words, but he’s doing his best to keep them caged in. There’s an obvious struggle, but the jaw comes out victorious. “Would you want to grab dinner later? Nothing weird or foreign, I swear.”