What the hell? "I don't want to go."
She glances at Mr. Sex-on-an-Extra-Thick-Stick and then at me, a knowing expression across her stupid face. "So don't."
"I'll stay and play," he says, nodding toward the pool table. And, really, who could say no to his freaking dimples when he grins, all deep and dazzling?
"One more drink," I tell him. "And if someone better comes along, I'm out of here."
"Tea—Cindy." Vera gives me an exasperated look. "Lighten up."
I know. I know.
I'm a bitch.
I can't help it. Sometimes, I don't even want to.
But he doesn't seem to mind—especially when he smirks and asks, "If another screen door comes along, you mean?"
"What?" At first I don't understand, even though Cassidy bursts out laughing beside me.
"Someone to bang all summer?" he asks, his smirk widening. "I get it. You find him—or her—and I'll leave you alone."
Who knew cheeks were made of kindling? Because his words spark mine and they erupt into flames.
"I don't get it," Vera says. "What am I missing?"
"Were you spying on me? On us, I mean," I demand, aiming for an indignant tone regardless of how neon my face must be. Damn red-haired complexion…
"I was walking past your pool table," he says.
"Right." I don't believe him. I would've seen him.
"He was," Cassidy says. "He walked behind you. I…noticed." Her cheeks go a pretty light pink color that is so unfair.
"You sell screen doors?" Vera asks, still confused.
I'd laugh as hard as he does at her question, but a different thought suddenly turns my stomach sour. "So what? You thought I'd make an easy mark? Because, trust me, I'm not going to—"
"Nothing about you seems easy to me," he says—and it wins him some points, to be honest. "But you're pretty, and you're feisty—and I'm into the combination."
"And that's our cue," Cassidy says, her tone full of approval. She glances at her phone and links her arm through Vera's. "Let's go, V." She looks at me. "You cool?"
"As ice," I say and sip my cider, even if my blood's heating more and more every second this dude's standing beside me. "Tell Gage I say he sucks. And also hi. I'll call you tomorrow."
"I have a feeling you've never been cool as ice," the guy says to me while my friends walk away. "You're too fiery for that."
"You're smooth." I roll my eyes to keep from looking at his face for at least one second longer, wondering if he actually sees me already or if this is his game. Then I study his hand when he holds it out toward me.
Trim, even fingernails. Long fingers. Big palm. He clears his throat. "Guess I should tell you my name now, if I'll be keeping you company until someone better comes along."
I wrap both hands around my cider. "I don't want to know your name. In fact, I'll choose one for you. How about…Frank?" Because I don't like the name Frank. Because maybe if I call him Frank, I'll find him less attractive.
This is what I tell myself as I drag my eyes to his face, and…
Ha.
Ha ha.
Eyes as dark as his should appear soulless. But nope. Staring into them is like peering into an endless night sky. Filled with stars you can't see but know are there, waiting to be unveiled if you focus long enough.
"…game of pool?" Frank's question comes through a second too late. I didn't even catch his reaction to my name for him, damn it.
"No. I suck at pool. Let's drink." Which is probably a stupid decision, but everything in me seems to be click-click-clicking into doing something even more stupid (stupider?) (ugh, who cares?) with this guy. With Frank. And I need a little more liquid courage to grease the gears that will wind me into being confident enough to do it.
"You're at a pool hall and you don't enjoy pool?" he asks. "Odd choice. Or did your friends drag you here?"
"I had a work thing nearby," I say, loving the way the words glide through my mouth. A work thing. Like I have a real job. Even if I had to beg for it from my best friend's father. Still. I'm working a real nine-to-fiver.
I'm tempted to brag about the company, Chambers & Britt. But I don't know enough about the equity firm—or about mergers and acquisitions—to answer any questions if he asks. And even if I'm proud of the company's name, I'm still only starting as a second assistant. Not super impressive to someone like this guy.
"Apparently this is the area happy hour hotspot strip," he says. "This row of bars and restaurants is always slammed right at five."
"You just get off?" I ask, then my cheeks heat all over again. Damn, this guy makes me jittery. "Of work, I mean?"
He nods. "Figured a drink or six might wash the day away."
"Want to talk about it?" Wait. I don't want to get to know him. What the hell am I asking for?
Thankfully, he says, "Not really. My boss turned down a proposal I've been working on."
"That sucks." But on the inside, I'm all cry me a freaking river, dude. You're too hot to have real problems.
"Sucks even more that the boss also happens to be my father. But the less I talk about it, the better."
"Good," I say. "Less talking, more drinking."
"Well, Cindy," he says, purring my fake name again. Now I kind of wish I'd given him the real one, to hear him stroke it like that with his tongue. "If drinking's what you're after, there are two seats at the bar."
I step toward where he motions, and he places his hand flat against the small of my back, and for a moment everything slows down. My heart pumps my blood in heavy glugs, like the fluid in my veins is actually molasses. My ears go a little fuzzy. The sudden excess of saliva pooling in my mouth takes eons to travel down my throat.
The warmth from his palm is seeping through my top and into my skin and igniting an entirely different sort of heat everywhere else.
Shit, shit, shit.
Or maybe…
Finally, finally, finally.
That's probably the alcohol talking, though. Which means I should have some more.
I let him lead me to the bar, which I lean against instead of grabbing a stool so he'll keep his hand on me a little longer. And while we stand there, waiting for the bartender, he traces little paths back and forth with his thumb, and even though I don't look at him, his presence is everywhere, all tall and muscular. His scent—aftershave or rainy pine tree forest or whatever it is—keeps wafting over to me and my entire body is completely aware of his and every time I inhale I get tingles in my lower belly and by the time we order drinks, I kind of want to jump him.
But with a guy like this? I don't even know where to begin.
Not that it's going to keep me from trying.
CHAPTER THREE
FRANK DOESN'T DRINK nearly as much as he should, which I continue to tell him every time I order another round for myself. He laughs and sips on his stupid Jack and Coke.
"Oh, I get it," I say (or maybe slur). "You're worried about getting it up later?"
Yep. Liquid courage is in full effect.
But this guy, this Frank… He's too much. Too hot. Too smooth. Too…just…standing here already making my entire body flush.
He laughs again, but this time he wipes a hand across his face, like he's embarrassed. His words say otherwise, though. "Believe me, that wouldn't be an issue. But I don't know if I want to be an addition to your screen door collection."
Maybe it's from the fuzziness that comes with alcohol, or maybe it's because it sometimes takes me a split second longer than other people to get things, but his remark sits between us for a moment before it sinks in. And then it burns.
"One," I say, holding up a finger, "fuck you. And two, why?" I can't believe I asked. I don't want to hear that I'm not pretty enough or funny enough or smart enough. Not that he knows me well enough to know the last two yet. Which means—oh, great—he isn't attracted to me. Story of my life.
I think of Vera and Cassidy and my stomach twists. Vera's stick-straight, jet-black satin-oth
erwise-known-as-hair, her slender build, her beautiful, flawless skin. Cassidy's annoyingly perfect blonde hair, her level-headed intelligence, and her sexy-as-sin curves… Next to them I'm a lump. Bland. Next to them, I'm—
"Hey, where'd you go?" Frank nudges me.
"Nothing. Never mind." I sip on my cider and watch a couple of guys taking shots at the end of the bar. I can't bring myself to look at Frank. Instead, I say, "I'm going home."
"Oh, no, you're not getting out of this one." He puts his hand over mine on the bar, grabbing it when I try to slide my fingers away. "You are the first reason I've had to smile this entire shitty day."
Now I look at him. It's easier when I'm pissed. "You're gonna keep me from leaving? I'd like to see you try."
Yeah, I actually would like to see him try. But guys like Frank don't beg girls like me to stick around.
Then he says, "You can leave if you want to. But I want my chance to answer your question first."
Again, I try to slide my hand from the bar. He tightens his grip, but not so much that I couldn't break free if I truly wanted to. Which is annoying because if I let him keep my hand in place, it tells him that I want this.
I do want this. I'm just not partial to being so open in my admission.
His palm is rough against my skin, scratchy. Hmm. How would it feel against other parts of my body?
I keep my hand where it is.
"I'm not interested in being someone's disposable screen door, Cindy." He watches my face. I temper my expression, glad he doesn't know my real name—but also full of regret over my lie. "You're sexy enough to be tempting, but that's not the kind of guy I am."
"So you're saying it's not me, it's you?" I lift a brow again, pretty sure I make it happen this time. And then, I realize he called me sexy. And there's this glow that slides softly through me, making my bones all melty… "Are you reverse psychology-ing me?"
He studies me over the rim of his glass, taking a sip before answering. "So we're clear, what exactly are you talking about?"
"Telling me you don't want to sleep with me while mentioning in the same breath that you think I'm sexy. Like you're trying to get me to bang you to beg me." Or…that didn't come out right… "Wait. No. Like you're trying to get me to beg you to bang me. Which I won't be doing," I add with a smug tilt to my mouth.
Which slides away when he leans in until his lips are at my ear and says, "I never said I didn't want to sleep with you. But I don't enjoy being used and tossed aside. Trust me, kitten, sleeping with you? My imagination roars just thinking about it."
"Oh." Needing to steady myself, I grab a stool, finally, and slide into it, though his face stays close to mine. In fact, I'm pretty sure if I were to angle my head to the side, his lips would find their way to my neck.
I tuck my hair over my opposite shoulder to free up some skin, and I…chicken out. I lean away from him, turning my face toward his but with a safe distance between us. "I'm pretty choosy about my screen door selection, anyway. I'm not sure you'd make the cut."
"Maybe we should find out." A smile plays around his mouth, and I can't help admiring his very soft-looking, very kissable lips. There's a perfect little dip on the upper one and I kind of want to lick it.
"And how would we do that?" I ask instead, keeping my tongue from doing anything embarrassing. I grab a few napkins from a stack on the bar and wipe up a leftover spill in front of where I'm sitting.
"We'll play a game." He moves smoothly into his own seat and motions the bartender over for another drink.
The bartender looks at me, expecting me to order another shot probably, but I ask for water. Because any more liquid courage right now risks souring into liquid puke…
"What sort of game?" I'm tempted to run a finger along the line of his jaw, over his stubble. I'm drunk enough to do it, but I pop the finger in my mouth instead. He watches, his gaze following my finger, lingering on my mouth…and I start to think maybe he meant what he said about finding me sexy. And I'm not exactly sure what to do with the feeling.
"Two truths," he says, raising his voice when someone turns up the music, "and one lie." And when I stare at him, puzzled, he says, "Oh, come on. You've never played this before? It's the standard corporate icebreaker."
"I must've missed that day," I say. "And if it's so standard, it's probably boring anyway."
"Not the way we're going to play." He tilts his head toward me. "Tell me three—no, actually let's make it harder—four secrets. Two truths, two lies. If I guess something true, you take a shot. If I don't, I take one."
"Why do they have to be secrets?"
"To keep it from being boring."
Hmm. Yeah, okay. This sounds kind of fun. And like something I'll kick his ass at. Whether or not the room's spinning a little bit around me.
"Ready?" I scoot further into my stool and wait for him to nod, truths and lies filtering easily through my mind. "My mother's famous. My father's a baker. I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue in less than five seconds. And," I bite back a laugh, "I'm a virgin."
Frank doesn't hold in his laugh; his eyes dance, all delighted. His dimples flash all deep and lickable. "That makes things a little easier…"
"I thought you said nothing about me seemed easy?"
"That's still true. But you made the game easier. I'm going with option B as one of the true statements. Your father's a baker—even though that doesn't count as a secret."
"Maybe he's a secret baker." I run my fingers up his sleeve, my stomach jumping at the hard muscle they encounter underneath it, and flick his shoulder. "But no. Drink up, bitch."
"Really? He isn't a baker?"
When I shake my head, he slides his face along mine, toward my hair, and takes a long inhale that sends goose bumps running down my body. "Then why do you smell so sweet? I had your whole story in my head, picturing your dad as a baker with the big white hat and everything. You as a little girl with flour on your nose. Growing into something this red-hot… It made sense for baking to be in your bones."
His tone is teasing, but his words push a wave of longing through me. I shake it off and motion the bartender over again. "Tequila," I say, pointing at Frank. "For this guy."
"You're looking for some trouble if you want me drinking tequila tonight."
"You made the rules," I remind him. "Plus, it's your turn."
"Oh, I don't think so. If your father's not a baker, that means your mom's famous and you can tie a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue in less than five seconds. I can't decide which I want to focus on more at the moment." His eyes fall to my lips. "You think our bartender will give you a cherry if you ask?"
"Maybe," I say. "But I won't ask."
"You're going to leave me to my imagination? Picturing you tying knots in stems, over and over again?"
"Just because I say I can do something doesn't mean I will. Sorry, my friend."
"Are we friends then?"
"I don't know. Tell me your truths and we'll see."
"Fine, but if we're friends, I expect the full story about your mother."
I laugh, because yeah freaking right.
"I'm serious," he says, straight-faced. "And…I want an example of your knot-tying talents."
"I don't need a cherry stem to show the talents of my tongue." The words slip out, and my face bursts into flames again. Here's yet another reason I avoid guys like Frank. He's too pretty, too smooth. The second I open my mouth around him I feel like an idiot.
However, there's a sweet sort of power in the way he takes a deep breath, and the look in his eyes grows hungry. He opens his mouth to respond, but the bartender brings over the shot and he takes it instead, shaking his head when the tequila hits his mouth and sucking the lime immediately after.
Lucky, lucky lime.
There's a drop of lime juice left over in the corner of his mouth, and this time I don't stop myself from touching him, from wiping it off with my finger.
"Your turn." I slide my finger over m
y own lips, letting the sweet and tart aftertaste sink in. But he's staring at my mouth again, and I don't think he hears me. Pretty sure I've upped the stakes of our game… I let one corner of my mouth rise. "Frank?"
"Right." His eyes shoot to mine. "Let's make this more interesting. If you guess wrong—you take a shot, as promised. If you guess a truth, though, you come home with me."
"This…feels slanted in your favor," I say.
"It's slanted in both our favors," he counters.
I pretend to consider, even though I know exactly what I'm going to say. "I'm in."
"Good." He weaves a rather intense promise through the one word that I can't quite define—but it makes me really, really hope I can guess a truth. He taps the sharp line of his jaw. "Let me think…"
I sip my water while I wait and, sneaking peeks out of the corner of my eye that he continually catches, I wonder what his secrets are. Plastic surgery to have a face like that? Or maybe he's a model, but secretly a lumberjack on the side, chopping trees down for extra money and that warm woodsy scent?
Perhaps a teeny tiny penis to compensate for the rest of his perfection?
"I have a brother who's getting married in a month—"
"That is not a secret," I say, shaking my head.
"Yeah, but I was about to say he's marrying the wrong girl. Better?" He lifts his brows, pleased with himself.
"Definitely." And I can tell it's true by his tone. Usually, I'd dig for the story, but tonight's not about getting to know Frank's mind. It's about getting my hands on his body—and being able to walk away after—so I keep my mouth closed.
"Okay, that's one. Two: I love comic books. Three: I grew up with a bad stutter—it still resurfaces once in a while. And…four: Every bone in my body, and not only the obvious one, is dying for you to come home with me tonight."
If that last one isn't true, this guy's a total asshole, because my body is revving at his words. I should probably run. Right now. Out the door.
Truth & Temptation Page 2
