by Lexi Scott
Maren leans over and trails her fingers in the waves. “I agree. And I know you’re going to hate this, but I know someone you might actually be great with—”
“Stop,” I beg. “Seriously, stop, Maren. No more blind dates. This one isn’t a total disaster, but my expectations are really damn low. I very obviously suck at dating. I’m cool with quitting while I’m ahead.”
“You and me both.” She crosses her arms and levels a determined stare my way. “But you can’t give up.”
“Why not?” I ask, moving close to her. She nearly falls into the water, but I save her at the last second, grabbing onto the sides of her hoodie. I can feel the warmth of her body under the bunched fabric. “Maybe it’s just my fate to die an old, ornery bachelor.”
Maren reaches out and puts her hands on my hips, and it’s like a quick burst of lightning runs through my body.
“Hmm. I guess I just don’t see that.”
The wind picks up and whips her hair around her face. I brush back a strand and watch her lips tremble as her eyes fly to meet mine.
“What do you see for me?” I ask, knowing I’m playing with fire.
“I see you with a really put-together girl,” Maren says slowly, her voice shaking a little. She drops her gaze so she’s not looking directly at me. “A girl who knows what she wants. Who has an amazing family. Who can help you live the life you’re supposed to live. You guys will make this unstoppable team, and I’ll be rooting for you both.”
I reach a hand out and gently, slowly, tip Maren’s face up, so she’s looking at me again. “What about for you? What kind of guy do you see yourself with?”
“Me?” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Well, I tend to choose dickheads, somehow. Cute guys, but they’re always…jerks. To put it lightly. I figure it’s because I’m such a wreck. I just pick guys who I know don’t matter in any real way.”
“You’re not a wreck,” I say, irritated that she’s selling herself short. “You’re damn amazing.”
“Cohen, I don’t think…”
“Look, you tend to wind up with assholes like Jason. I tend to wind up with shallow drama queens like Ally. Maybe this blind date wasn’t about me and you following the same stupid pattern we’ve been following our whole lives.”
The air screams around us as the wind picks up, and I pull Maren tighter, into my arms.
“We really do seem to have some kind of dating virus,” she whispers, her lips close to mine.
“Or maybe we keep catching the virus from all the crazy assholes we date,” I argue, running a thumb over her full bottom lip. “Maybe our only hope for immunity is to stick together. Like our own private quarantine.”
“Are you sure about this, Cohen?” she asks, her hands balled in my sweatshirt, tugging me so close I can’t mistake the hungry look in her eyes. “Because we have a good thing right now, and this could ruin it.”
I nod to the house. “Let’s kick those two out and try this again from the top, just you and me.”
I wait, my heart like a jackhammer, my breath stopped up in my lungs, until she answers.
“So you want to go on a blind date with me?” she asks, her eyes wide with shock.
“I’ve been dating blind for too long, Maren.” I swallow hard. “I think it’s time to open my eyes and see the girl who’s been right in front of me all along.”
Chapter Eight
Maren
When Cohen and I walk in from the beach hand in hand, shaking with our wild, secret excitement, we totally find Ally and Jason wrapped around each other, having some secret excitement of their own.
“Good for them,” Cohen says.
He manages to pull them apart and talks to Ally about whether she’s comfortable driving Jason home, since he’s polished off the entire bottle of booze Cohen gave him, and she’s stone sober. I try my best not to snort over how quickly Ally snatches at Jason’s keys. Cohen basically carries the drunk fool out to his car, since Jason can barely stand up on his own. Ally wastes no time peeling out with a huge, triumphant smile on her face, like she bagged a real prize.
Huh. Maybe there will be a June wedding in Ally’s future after all. The woman is clearly a blind idiot. I hope she’ll be very happy with her arrogant, rude prick of a “catch.” I just shake my head, trying to figure out how the hell she met Cohen and didn’t instantly fall head-over-heels for him.
Just as I’m thinking that, he walks back into the house, and my entire body goes tight and hot. I want…
I want things I should definitely not want.
Hot kisses. Bodies pressed together. Sexy, sweet, gorgeous Cohen all night long, all mine.
How the hell did this even happen? This morning Cohen was just the sexiest voice to come through the speakers on my phone. Now he’s a flesh and blood Adonis who wants…me.
“Maren?”
The sound of my name from his lips makes me jump.
“Hey.” I smile at him, suddenly shy. Which is weird, because all afternoon we’ve been joking and laughing like we’ve known each other our entire lives. “So…?”
“Yeah.” He sits at the counter next to me and rubs his palms down his jeans, drawing my attention to his bulging thighs.
Damn, what’s a guy do to get sexy thigh muscles like that? I think I’d like to see Cohen demonstrate whatever exercise that is.
“What do you want to—”
“Was there something you wanted—”
We laugh, insist the other go first, stumbling over our words. Ugh! How did things go from sexually charged to plain awkward so quickly? I’m not sure what to do or say, and then I shiver.
It’s the tiniest little shake of my body, but Cohen’s on it like a mad dog. His hands are warm on my shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles along my upper arms.
“Hey, are you cold?” he asks, his focus so intense it’s actually pretty erotic.
“I think it’s the aftershocks of the ocean water—” I start to explain, and then let out a long, unexpected yawn. “Whoa. Excuse me. It must be the wine. I swear I’m not usually in bed by—” I stop and crane my neck, checking the time on his kitchen clock. “Nine o’clock on a Saturday night. I was up super early this morning.”
“You’ve been a champ today, Maren. We can just relax. All I wanted out of today was to hang out with you. I couldn’t care less what we do.”
Before I can protest, he’s herding me to a gorgeous bathroom, taking out clean towels, showing me how to control the water temperature.
“Take a shower. A long, hot one. I’ll have tea waiting when you get out,” he orders, his bossy tone at odds with the sweet domesticity he’s offering.
The door clicks shut, and I stand in the bathroom—in Cohen Rodriguez’s bathroom—and peel my clothes off. I start the shower and step in, wondering what the hell I’m doing here.
I met my dream guy in the flesh— And he didn’t disappoint. Nope, he sure didn’t disappoint at all.
I let the hot spray ease my tense back muscles.
I got up the guts to ask him on a blind date—with a girl who’s actually in his league. But she was too stupid to see how amazing he is. At least the moron took care of my obnoxious date.
I work the sweet-smelling shampoo in my hair and rub the creamy soap over my body, luxuriating in the suds.
He took me walking on the ocean and looked at me like he wanted to scoop me up, throw me on his bed, and take his damn time. And now that big, sexy man is rumbling around his kitchen, making me a cup of tea. Taking care of me.
I press my forehead to the cool tiles and stifle a sob.
Cohen is taking care of me.
I’ve spent so much time lately taking care of my father and trying to keep my head above the water, that turning myself over to someone as capable and caring as Cohen feels…like heaven, even if it is just for tonight. I step out of the shower and wrap myself in the towel. That’s when I notice a pair of neatly folded shorts and a T-shirt. The shorts are too big to stay on my hips no matter h
ow tight I pull the drawstring, so I just pull my undies back on. But the shirt…
I’m wearing his shirt. It’s a plain white tee with a V-neck, and it hangs loose over my curves and just grazes the bottom of my underwear. It’s comfy and stretchy, like a warm, enveloping second skin. And it smells like him. Just like him.
“Maren,” he says through the door.
“Yes?” I press my palm to the wood and close my eyes, waiting to hear his voice again.
“It’s late. I know you’re probably tired. If you want, I can take you home. If you… If you’d rather stay, the bed is made up and your tea is on the bedside table.”
I could open the door, but I’m so nervous my knees knock.
“Is it okay if I sleep here? Am I putting you out?”
“Not at all. Maybe we could do something tomorrow. When we’ve gotten a good night’s sleep.” He clears his throat. “You take the room right across the hall.”
Ah! So he wants a good night’s sleep. That means no sex. Which isn’t a surprise, because he’s the ultimate gentleman.
I’m not going to lie; it is a teeny bit of a letdown. After the way he looked at me on the beach, I just assumed it would be like a scene out of a hot romantic movie, all kisses up against walls and clothes pushed half off as we grope each other like crazy.
“That sounds great. Good night, Cohen.”
“Feel free to get me if you need anything. Good night, Maren. Sweet dreams.”
I wait, like a coward, until I hear his footsteps retreat, a door open and close, and a few seconds of total silence, then I dart out of the bathroom and into the room across the hall, where a hot cup of tea is waiting for me.
I crawl into the bed and realize the sheets smell like him.
Clean and crisp with a tiny hint of salt. Exactly the way your skin smells after a day in the ocean waves. I pull the sheets up to my chin and breathe deep, letting the scent of Cohen slide into my nostrils and down to my lungs.
I haven’t had a lot of faith in too many people lately, but there’s something about Cohen that makes me feel protected. Maybe it seems crazy that I’d be ready to slip into his bed the first night I met him—granted, not in his bed with him (not that I would have minded that).
The problem with thinking too hard is that it gets messy. It gets your brain all jumbled and hungry. And a hungry brain, at least in my case, always leads to a hungry stomach.
The last thing I had to eat was that hot dog and a half at the game hours ago. We’d talked about appetizers, but that never panned out. I did down two glasses of wine, though, so my head is swimmy, and my stomach growls and twists in knots.
I slide out of his bed, tug down on his shirt so it covers more of my red and pink lace underwear, and pad to the kitchen quietly, hoping I don’t disturb Cohen, and I hope he won’t mind me barging into his space like I own the place. His kitchen is organized in a masterful way, each thing put in the place where you’d be most likely to look for it. I find what I’m looking for in a few seconds, and there are eggs sizzling on the blue flame of his stove in minutes.
I almost whip the frying pan off the stove to use as a weapon when I hear a throat clear behind me.
But my killer instinct quiets down because it’s just Cohen.
Cohen. The guy who owns this house, this cozy, put-together kitchen, and these eggs sizzling in this pan.
“Cohen.” I put one hand against the white cotton of his shirt and feel my heart leaping under my palm.
“Maren.”
It’s just my name, nothing special, but the word falling from his mouth makes my breath hitch. Say it again, my brain screams. Say it after you kiss me. Say it while you’re holding me.
Why hadn’t I kissed him when his arms were around me, making me feel safe and warm even in the middle of the dark, crashing ocean waves?
Maybe because the attraction I feel for him is so strong, it’s almost harsh, like heavy grit sandpaper. It grates against my already frayed nerves and makes me feel overexposed.
“I’m sorry.” I use the spatula to point to the eggs, hissing merrily in the pan. “I was so damn hungry. And you had a full dozen. I only cooked…” I look down in the pan and my voice drops to an embarrassed whisper. “Four.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, muscles bulging, smile a mile and a half wide. “Four, huh? You bulking up?”
I let my lips curl into a return smile. “Maybe. You don’t know my life, Cohen Rodriguez, remember? You never did guess right.”
“Hmm. Are you a secret cage fighter?” His voice slides up and down my spine like a cube of ice, and I shiver and want more. Now.
“Maybe.” Maybe I press the shirt down at my hips so it’s tight against my breasts, and my nipples strain against the thin white fabric, just to see how he’ll react.
Do I imagine the way his pupils grow huge and dark? Well, even if that’s just my imagination running wild, there’s nothing imaginative about the way he rakes his eyes up and down my body.
Usually a hungry look like that while I’m standing half naked in someone’s kitchen would make me uncomfortable, but Cohen’s makes me feel the opposite. I feel like showing off. I turn so my ass is in full view, and I know damn well how good the little bits of lace that barely cover my curves look.
I take back every nasty threat I ever hurled Jacinda’s way. I can feel Cohen’s eyes burning on my skin, and that makes the quarter of a paycheck I handed over to my irritating co-worker in return for lots of lacy, sexy lingerie well worth it.
So worth it.
A few hours ago, I had myself convinced a guy as awesome as Cohen should be with someone totally put together. Someone with her head on straight and her future in order. I figured he’d never see anything good in me anyway, that I should give up before I even tried. I’ve spent such a long time hiding in my dingy apartment with my falling-apart father, keeping my head down and my hopes low.
Well, I’m sick of hiding my desires, my hopes, my needs. And I’m more attracted to Cohen than I’ve ever been to anyone before. Tonight, at least, I want to face it all. I want to give myself a chance to see what it would be like if I pulled this perfect man off the pedestal I put him on and into my arms.
“Cage fighting doesn’t seem tough enough for you.” Cohen heads to the fridge, pulls out a loaf of bread, and pops four pieces in the toaster. He comes to my side, standing so he’s just over my shoulder, his body close enough to mine that I feel the heat of his skin at my back.
My breath comes out in quick, heady pants. “So what would be tough enough then?” I ask, turning my head. My hair brushes his jaw, a few pieces getting caught in the scratchy scruff of his five o’clock shadow.
He should take a step back. Social conventions demand that. But he doesn’t. And I’m very, very happy that he doesn’t.
“Tough enough for you?” he asks, wrapping one arm around me and tugging the spatula out of my hand. He loosens the eggs, grabs the pepper mill, and wraps both arms around me so he can crush some pepper on the golden yolks, then presses against me as he leans forward and lowers the heat slightly. “Maybe alligator wrestling?” he suggests, his voice low in my ear. “Maybe tightrope walking in the Grand Canyon?”
I laugh and lean back into him, not giving a damn how stupid that might be. He doesn’t back away.
“I think I like the way you picture me,” I say, not moving my hand when his comes around to cup mine.
“If you knew what I was picturing right now,” he says, his voice low and rough, “I guarantee you’d kick me out.”
My heart beats hard and wild in my chest. We’re too close to the stove, too close to the truth, too close to an edge we may fall over and never come back from. I turn slowly, and when he backs away my heart falls.
Until he grabs my hip and pulls me to him.
“I can’t kick you out,” I whisper, my lips shaking and my voice trembling as I walk back out of his grasp. He shadows my every move. “It’s your house. It’s your kitchen.”<
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He shakes his head, his dark eyes pinning me against the counter as sure as if his hands were still on me. “You can do whatever you want here.”
“Why would you say that?” I ask and untangle my eyes from his long enough to look down at my curled toes.
“Because something about you makes me want to convince you to stay here. Even if that requires me leaving.” His voice has the slightest lazy slur to it, which is a direct contrast to the steady look in his eyes.
“You’re crazy.” I laugh to make it a joke, but we both know no one’s joking.
His eyes stay locked in my direction, and, just when I’m positive I can’t stand one more second, he paces to the stove, flips the eggs, grabs two plates, slides the toast out of the toaster oven, butters it, and drops the perfectly cooked eggs on top.
“Eat,” he instructs, his voice low and hot, holding the plate toward me.
I take it and try not to let him see how much effort I have to put into holding it still as he goes to the other side of the counter.
“Do you know what’s so weird?” I ask as I cut into the firm yellow of my yolk. The first bite is creamy, delicious heaven in my mouth.
The only thing I can imagine wanting in my mouth more is his tongue, and my brain skips and sputters just thinking that thought.
“What’s that?” He watches me as he eats, his eyes hot and focused.
I try not to get sucked into those eyes, but there’s no safe place on him to focus on. What else can I look at? His broadly muscled shoulders? The bulge of his biceps? His strong hands, deeply tanned and long-fingered? Every new thing I notice about him drives my poor hormones into a serious frenzy.
“You were just a voice on the phone a few hours ago. And now I’m eating eggs in your kitchen and wearing your shirt to bed.”
And imagining doing very, very bad things with you all over your gorgeous house.
I would blame that train of thought on the drinking we did earlier, but I’m sobering up more and more by the second, and I know this has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with finally meeting that certain person you never even realized you’d been waiting for.
