Muffin Top

by Avery Flynn

  “Fine,” she said, forcing a light, “whatever” tone she sure wasn’t feeling into her voice. “But I get the right side.”

  And that turned out to be the easy part of the night. Laying down in the dark next to Frankie was much harder. She’d never been more aware of how she laid down in a bed, where she put her arms, and the fact that her sleep shorts turned into wedgie shorts the moment she shifted even the smallest amount.

  His breathing was soft and even. The man must have been born under a lucky star to be one of the people who crashed out as soon as their head hit the pillow. It was definitely another mark against him. She let out an annoyed—but quiet—huffy sigh.

  “You are seriously fucking with my meditation,” he said, his voice a grumbly low rumble in the dark.

  Medita— Her eyes snapped open and she rolled onto her side to face him. “You meditate?”

  He didn’t move. His eyes stayed closed, which gave her the opportunity to check him out—something that was especially easy because he’d stripped down to boxers and a T-shirt and slept on top of the covers while she’d been trying to fall asleep under the sheet. The man’s thighs were phenomenal. She’d never been much of a leg woman, but seeing the tree trunks Frankie stood on gave her a new appreciation. Was she a total dog for checking him out when all he was trying to do was meditate? Yeah. So what?

  “Tell no one about this,” he said. “And I won’t drive off in the morning and leave you behind in this one-B-and-B town.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, which for some reason was harder when she was laying on her side, because there was no way he’d do that. Frankie was a lot of things, but a total asshole wasn’t one of them.

  “Tell me everything.” Because finding out the Mr. Manly Man firefighter meditated was way better than staring at the ceiling and wondering if the B and B owner had fixed the leak that had caused the brown stain or if their upstairs neighbors were going to fall through and land on their laps—and thoughts like that were why it took her forever to fall asleep. It sure wasn’t because of the man beside her.

  Uh-huh, sure it’s not.

  “Fallon got me started on it to help me fall asleep,” Frankie said. “Otherwise I’m up until three in the morning.”

  “Even during”—she paused dramatically—“sleepovers?”

  He opened his eyes and turned over then, and one side of his mouth curled in a half smile. “Is that your delicate way of asking about what happens after I fuck?”

  “Past tense,” she said, her voice breathier than before, but she couldn’t help it. Their faces were only inches apart, and they were in a bed, for the love of stilettos, which meant she’d gone from just being awake to being aware and awake. “Fucked.”

  His gaze dipped down to her mouth. “You’re a real hard-ass.”

  Her pulse picked up, and a swarm of horny butterflies took off in her stomach. “Stop trying to avoid the question.”

  He glanced up from her mouth, and she got the full force of those blue eyes of his. It didn’t matter they were in a darkened room, at that moment she would have sworn on a stack of designer shoes discovered in the 70-percent-off section of DSW that his eyes got darker as he stared at her. Then a lazy smile curled his lips—the kind that probably set girls’ panties up in flames. Not hers, of course, because he was Frankie Hartigan and she was not his type, but oh my, it was something.

  “Yes, I have trouble sleeping,” he said, his voice lower, rougher than just being pulled out of his nightly meditation should have accomplished. “Even after I do dirty things to members of the opposite sex until we are both a sweaty, drained mess of satisfaction on the bed or couch or kitchen counter or hall floor or wherever it is that we got it on.”

  She pictured that and her core clenched, because who wouldn’t have gotten the mother of all pornographic mental images after that?

  “Usually men sack out after orgasm,” she said, letting her brain go on autopilot because somehow she’d lost total control of this conversation. “They’ve linked it to the release of a cocktail of brain chemicals and the hormone prolactin that’s released during ejaculation. So you should get at least a good post-sex nap. Of course, studies have also shown that men with lower prolactin can recover from sex faster for another go. Have you experienced that?”

  He chuckled. “How do you know all this?”

  “Everybody’s got to have a hobby.”

  “And your hobby is sex?”

  “Not really, but my dad’s a sex therapist so I grew up in a house where it was treated as just another part of life instead of something dirty or weird,” she said, her pulse still going a million miles an hour but her brain finally coming back from mental porno overload. “And yours seems to be trying to change the subject. Refractory time, how much do you need?”

  “Not a lot,” he said without hesitation.

  Oh, momma. She filed that information away for later jilling off fantasy time. “Well, I’m not a doctor or a scientist, but you probably have lower prolactin, so that’s why you’re not going to Snoozeville as easily after knocking boots.”

  “Knocking boots?” One eyebrow went up. “What are you, a nineties R&B junkie too?”

  “I am a woman of unbelievable depths.”

  “So how about you? Do you go straight out after sex?”

  It was a fair question after how she’d deep-dived into him, but that didn’t mean she was going to answer. “A lady never tells.”

  “Does that mean I’ll have to find out for myself?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

  And the horny butterfly battalion went into overdrive. Fucking A. “N. O. Remember? You’ve temporarily renounced sex.”

  His eyes did that thing again that made her ovaries volunteer as tribute. “Right. No sex.” He glanced down at her mouth and then back up. “Goodnight, Lucy.”

  He rolled over, leaving her to stare at his back as she reminded herself that “no sex” really meant “no sex with her.” Still, after that little convo, there was no fucking way she wasn’t going to be kept up all night by thoughts of sex with Frankie.

  Tomorrow was going to be even rougher on no sleep.

  Chapter Six

  Lucy cracked her eyelids, the hint of a dream still hazy in her memory—something about the rain that had left her hot and yearning—and turned toward the left side of the bed. No one was ever going to confuse her with a morning person, but she wasn’t so out of it when she woke up that she wasn’t going to remember the hunka hottie she’d gone to sleep next to. Really, she’d have to be near death to forget how she’d spent way too much time listening to him breathe before she’d finally drifted off.

  Sitting up, she took stock of their room. Frankie was gone, but the sound of the shower coming through the closed bathroom door gave away his location. That turned out to be a really good thing because—per usual—her boobs had escaped the confines of her tank top while she’d slept. Thank God she’d woken up with the sheet up to her chin, because looking like she was going for Mardi Gras beads was not how she wanted to start off her day when she’d be trapped in the car with Frankie for the next twelve hours. Thinking of which, she grabbed her phone and hit the contact number to FaceTime Doctor Daddy. Yes, it was a weird nickname, but so was her dad.

  Her dad picked up almost immediately. Unlike her, he was a complete morning person, as proven by the fact that he was dressed and ready for the day at five thirty Antioch time. “How’s my favorite girl this morning?”

  “I’m here.” She tried to avoid looking at the little box with her picture in his because she hadn’t done as good of a job as she’d thought taking off her mascara before bed.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “We hit a bit of a snag. Frankie’s car broke down, but it should be all fixed up this morning. We should be in tonight, but it will be really late tonight.”

  Her dad made a tut-tut noise. “Just drive safe.”

  “We will.” A low growl sounded, and the tips of two pointed ears app
eared at the bottom right hand of the screen. “Is that Gussie?”

  She’d done her best to pretend the French Bulldog was going to a kennel for the four days she’d be home. It wasn’t that Gussie was a mean dog or even a bad dog, it’s just he had some nasty habits that made being around him awkward to say the least.

  “Yes, it is,” her dad said as he looked down at the dog who was almost completely out of camera range. “Look at my boy. He’s such a good boy.”

  Her dad might think so, but the Frenchie wasn’t a good boy, he was a total dog. Right on cue, she could see his pointy little ears bobbing forward and back. Lucy closed her eyes. She didn’t have to see more than just the tips of the dog’s ears to know what he was doing. Gussie was humping the stuffed reindeer a patient had given her dad that the dog had fallen in lust with at first sight.

  “Dad, do you have to let him do that?” she asked, her cringe reaching all the way to her internal organs.

  “It’s better not to interrupt, Lucy. It’s a totally natural thing.”

  Platitudes like that were what she’d grown up hearing, thanks to the fact that her dad was a sex therapist. That didn’t change her mind at all. To make it even worse, two things happened right then.

  One, Frankie walked out of the bathroom wearing only a white towel he was holding mostly together with one hand.

  Two, her dad bobbled his phone, changing the angle so there was no missing Gussie as he…ahem…finished.

  “What in the hell?” both men asked at the same time.

  Lucy slammed the phone to her more than ample chest, glad her cleavage was good for more than storing cash and the occasional tube of chapstick.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” she hissed at Frankie as if her dad hadn’t already gotten an eyeful.

  “Because I just came out of the shower,” Frankie said, looking at her as if she’d just grown a second head. “Why are you watching dog porn?”

  Her jaw dropped. What the hell? “It’s not dog porn, you sicko. I’m talking to my dad.”

  “And he’s watching dog porn?” Frankie asked.

  “No.” Oh God, how in the world did she explain this? “Gussie is just…enthusiastic.”

  “And he’s got a schedule he likes to stick to.” Her dad’s muffled voice came from the phone’s speaker crushed against her chest. “More importantly, why is your so-called only a friend naked in your room, young lady?”

  “Dad,” she said with an annoyed sigh as she moved the phone so she wasn’t smothering it and angled it so her face took up the entire screen. “I’m a grown woman. I’ve seen plenty of naked guys before. This is not a big deal.”

  Frankie let out a grumble of a complaint. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just take my seriously damaged ego and go get dressed now.” He grabbed his jeans off of a stack of boxes where he’d left them last night and went back into the bathroom.

  Lucy let out a deep breath that sent her bangs flying upward. What she wouldn’t do for a vat of coffee and a return to simpler times when phone calls were voice only.

  “He’s just a friend, Dad,” she said. “We had to stop earlier than expected because the car’s fuel pump went out, and it’s a really small town with one B and B that only had one room available.”

  “Sorry for my reaction, it was just unexpected,” her dad said as he adjusted his bifocals and got his doctor face on. “Sex is a natural and beautiful part of life, not something to be ashamed about. I remember with your mother—”

  “Dad!” she exclaimed, whipping her head around to make sure the bathroom door was still closed, which it thankfully was.

  “Fine. Well, I look forward to meeting”—he made air quotes—“your ‘friend’ when he has clothes on tonight.”

  She opened her mouth and shut it right away. There wasn’t any point in trying to set her dad straight. He was a die-hard romantic and always had been. At least she’d inherited her mom’s more cynical outlook on all things romance.

  “I’ll text when we’re a half hour out,” she said. “Don’t wait for dinner, though.”

  He nodded. “I won’t, but I will save you plenty of tofu.”

  Yay—not.

  “Bye, Dad.” She blew her father a kiss and hit end.

  And to think waking up with one boob hanging out just might have been less embarrassing than that call.

  …

  The mechanic must have been an early riser, because by the time Frankie and Lucy had walked from the B and B—with him carrying all three pieces of luggage despite her protests—the fuel pump was fixed and Scarlett was parked in front of the shop, looking almost as good as the sight that had greeted him when he’d woken up this morning.

  Rolling over and getting an eyeful of Lucy’s pink-nipple-tipped tit that had spilled out of her top while she’d slept had been a little like getting new equipment at the firehouse—awesome and awe-inspiring. At first, he was rendered immobile by the sight. Lucy’s boobs weren’t just amazing. They were lickable, and squeezable, and nibble-able, and so-many-more-dirty-things-able. Seriously, a man—specifically him—could spend a lot of time displaying the proper amount of devotion to Lucy’s tits. That wasn’t going to happen, though, and she deserved better than to have him getting an eyeful. Raising the sheet to cover her was the right thing to do. There was no way he wanted her to wake up and realize what had happened. So he’d yanked up the sheet, gotten into the shower, and blasted himself with ice-cold water.

  “I need you to let me cover this,” Lucy said when they walked inside the mechanic’s shop.

  He set their bags down near the counter and rang the bell to let the mechanic know they were there. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “Why not?” She narrowed her eyes at him and crossed her arms.

  “Because it was only a matter of time with that fuel pump.” He would not check out her rack. He would not. His gaze went straight to her boobs. He quickly rubbed his eyes and refocused on the bell on the counter. “The fact that it happened on this drive means nothing.”

  “You do know that letting me pay for the repairs your car needed during a road trip I asked you on won’t permanently shrivel your dick, right?”

  The door connecting the garage bay to the office area opened up, and a wiry man in blue coveralls strode in with a folder in his hand.

  “So I’m paying,” she said, plopping her giant purse onto the counter and unzipping it.

  “Nope.” He put his hand on hers, stopping her. “You’re not.”

  They silently eye-fought while the mechanic opened up the folder and slid the printed invoice across, all the while looking at him and Lucy as if they were sixteen shades of crazy. Frankie smacked his hand on it before she could. She shot him a dirty look but didn’t voice a protest. Sure, it was a small victory, but he was still relishing it an hour later when the small town wasn’t even a speck in Scarlett’s rearview mirror.

  “So, what’s our cover story?” he asked as they sped through Illinois, needing to break up the monotony of the scenery and the excitement of his fantasies, which were making driving uncomfortable.

  She turned in her seat and flashed an ornery smile his way. “You wrecked your car checking out my ass while I was crossing the street.”

  Yep. Lucy would have her revenge for him paying for the fuel pump. Had he expected her to react any differently? That would be a big nope.

  “How can you say something like that about Scarlett?” he asked as he smoothed his palm across the dashboard. “She can hear you.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “You are such a pain in the ass.”

  “Why don’t we stick to the truth as much as possible,” he said. “Makes things easier to remember.”

  “Good point.” She pursed her full red lips together and looked out at the endless fields of corn or soybeans or wheat or whatever in the hell it was that people grew out here. “We met because your brother is dating one of my best friends.”

  “And you couldn’t keep your eyes off me and decided to m
ake it your mission in life to have you wicked way with me.”

  She shook her head and put her sunglasses back on, pivoting in her seat so she was looking out the front windshield. “No way. You pursued me. I turned you down four times before I finally agreed to go out with you—just for coffee.”

  A coffee date? Really? Women loved him, they didn’t make him go the is-he-a-serial-killer route with an afternoon date. “I’m not sure my ego is going to survive this trip.”

  “Your ego is the only thing bigger than you are. It could use a little downsizing,” she said with a chuckle. “Now back to it.”

  “Obviously our coffee date lingered into dinner after you realized that you had a thing for devastatingly hot firefighters.” Nice recovery, Hartigan.

  “More like you intrigued me with stories about your extensive My Little Pony collection.”

  It was a good thing the road in this part of the world was flat, straight, and uneventful because he had to turn his head, his mouth gaping open a bit, to stare at her. My Little Pony? Oh, she was getting mean now. He’d never thought of himself as the testosterone-filled caveman type, but yeah, that plus the coffee date was getting to him. He was about to open his mouth when he saw her lips twitch. The woman was busting his chops, and she was doing it on purpose. He clamped his piehole shut and turned back to the highway.

  “Don’t hate on Sparkle Nose.”

  She let out a laugh that filled the car. “That’s not a real My Little Pony horse name.”

  “It should be, and I’m sticking to it.” Oh yeah. She may have started this ridiculousness, but he was running with it. Never challenge a Hartigan. “Sparkle Nose is the best. I think I should get a temporary tattoo.”