Riding the Wave

by Allyson Lindt

  “Will you talk to your family in the morning?” Sympathy lined his question.

  She nodded. “They’ll call, and then I’ll go pass out for the day. What about you?”

  “They probably won’t call me.” He winked. “Tristan and I really only talk for business these days.”

  Right. He was most likely only being nice to her because of her brother. The thought hurt, but it was a good reminder to cling to. “I meant your family.”

  “They won’t call me either. It’s a long, messy story, involving an ex-wife and an affair—hers, not mine.” He added the last bit quickly.

  “I didn’t think otherwise.”

  He studied her for a moment, brow furrowed. “Anyway. We’re all set, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.” She forced the word out.

  He rested a hand at the small of her back. “You should get home.”

  “Right.” But she couldn’t make her feet move. That would mean pulling away from his touch.

  “I’ll walk you out. Make sure you get to your car safely.”

  Which would be another minute or two with him. God, she was pathetic. “Thanks.” She gave him her brightest smile.

  The stroll to the parking lot was over faster than she expected, and she didn’t have any more reason to linger when they reached her car. She fiddled with the door handle, not sure what else to say.

  Spencer hovered a hand near her cheek, never making contact. Was that a light bob of his head toward hers, or was she imagining it?

  She resisted the urge to lick her lips. When he squeezed her arm, instead of leaning in for a kiss, she boxed up her childish impulses.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  “You too.” She forced herself to open the door, slide into the driver’s seat, and start the engine. She enjoyed the view of him walking back into the building before heading home.

  It was almost two when she walked in her front door. She’d killed a couple of hours, and done so in good company. Something to be grateful for. The urge to slay Hoarde was gone, though.

  She texted her back-up, to let them know she was available again, then settled onto the corner of the couch and tucked her legs under her. A movie sounded good. Something that didn’t require her to think but would keep her adrenaline racing so she’d stay awake.

  She sifted through the Netflix catalog, until she found the promise of zombies, gore, and death. It had a two-star rating, so it would either be surprisingly good, or more likely, bad enough to be funny.

  The movie finished, and it was as bad as she hoped. And there was a sequel. She hit Play without hesitation. Part Two had only been on for a few minutes, when she heard something.

  She strained her ears. Were the neighbors up this early, or had the movie actually creeped her out a little? She muted the film.

  There it was again. A knock. She frowned and tried to ignore her hammering heart. Phone in hand, in case it was a psycho zombie, she crept to the front door. She peered through the peephole and let out a shaky laugh of relief.

  Spencer. Seeing him was reassuring, but it didn’t calm her racing pulse.

  She let him in, trying to keep her goofy grin under control, and pretty sure she failed. “Hey.” Real witty, me.

  “Hey.” His smile was warm. He held up a plastic bag with Styrofoam takeout boxes in it. “I got to thinking I didn’t want to eat breakfast alone, and you said you’d be up for a few more hours, so join me for Christmas French toast? It’s IHOP, not homemade, but it’s fresh.”

  “It sounds wonderful.” She nodded toward her kitchenette. Warmth spilled inside her, but it was different from before. Her mother made French toast every Christmas. One of those family-tradition things she was seriously missing. But not as much now.

  He set the bag on the table and unpacked everything, including plasticware and two single-serve bottles of orange juice. Then he held out a chair for her. “I thought you could use a taste of home. Or close.”

  As she sat, he pushed her chair in. “I don’t suppose you have some snow in there too,” she said, her tone light and teasing.

  He turned the sack upside down and shook it. “Nope. Fresh out. Sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter. This is perfect.” Good food, and great company in a sexy wrapper... It was better than she would have dared wish for. Her teenage-self would be green with envy right about now.

  SPENCER SAT NEXT TO Trina on the couch, facing her, their shins pressed against each other. Breakfast was over, they were chatting, and he was still trying to figure out why he was here.

  On the surface, the answer was easy. Once he’d screwed his head back on straight, he realized seeing her brought back long-faded memories. Like how close she and her family were, and the one Christmas he’d spent with them.

  He didn’t understand the bond, but he admired it. And he was trying like fuck to remember how protective Tristan was of his sister.

  But there was more to that snippet from years ago. It was the last time he’d seen Trina. Ten years old, skipping down the stairs on Christmas morning, excited for French toast, like it was the most amazing invention ever.

  He was thirteen years older than she was, so back then she’d simply been the little girl happy about presents. But this woman next to him wasn’t the same person. Or he’d rather pretend that was the case.

  “Best achievement ever?” Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she considered the question he’d asked. “President of the juggling club in high school.”

  He laughed. That was happening a lot tonight. This morning? Whatever. “You mean Mr. Vincent’s Juggling Club?” The adviser of the group let everyone take the title, so they’d have something impressive to put on college applications.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Best thing I remember about his class is photography, tenth grade, losing my virginity in the dark room with a cheerleader.” It was a blatant segue, but he didn’t know if he cared at this point, as long as she didn’t have a problem with it.

  The way she ducked her head made him regret the comment, but she wasn’t frowning. A tiny smile danced on her lips, and pink dotted her cheeks.

  He was going to push his luck a little further. “What about you?”

  “Nothing to tell.”

  She didn’t mean...? No. She was being shy. Someone as gorgeous and fun to talk to as she was, had to have a story. “I’m not asking for intimate details,” he said.

  “Which is good, because there aren’t any.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes, and hesitation lined her voice. She did mean that. She was still a virgin.

  “So you’ve never...”

  She shrugged. “I’m the nerdy girl. Quiet. Head down. And sometimes a little defensive about being female and in IT. Or I don’t know how to read the signs. Either way, it—sex—just never happened.”

  “When it does, it does.” He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. It was probably a good idea to change the subject.

  “Maybe I don’t know what a guy’s really looking for in a girl,” she said.

  You. “Someone who puts out.” He winced. His brain was so not on the same page as his dick tonight.

  “I don’t have a problem with putting out. It’s finding a willing partner who doesn’t give me the creeps that’s been an issue.”

  He was going to get this response right, if it killed him. “You’re gorgeous, intelligent, and quick-witted. That’s going to scare a lot of guys off.” Fuck. “The kind of guys you don’t want hanging around, anyway.”

  “Thanks. Not.” Bitterness tinged her reply. “I’m not talking about a sweeping romance that spans the decades and centuries. I’d like to think my expectations are reasonable, for a first time. I’m talking about getting laid.”

  Fuck it. He was tired of trying to think through his responses and failing. “You’re not the problem. I promise.”

  “Not reassuring. If it’s not about me, it’s about the guys, right? I knew that. I’m not looking for a pack of t
hem. Where am I supposed to find even one decent man?”

  You’re looking at one. Maybe not decent. Not at this point. But interested. “They’re out there.”

  A loud jangle rang through the apartment, shattering the mood and his thoughts.

  “My phone.” She let out a nervous laugh and glanced at the screen. “It’s Tristan,” she said, then swiped Answer. “Morning.”

  That was Spencer’s cue to leave. Saved by the bell. Or wrecked by it. Or something. He stood, and Trina looked up at him.

  “Hang on,” she told Tristan. “I’m wrapping things up with a client.”

  Spencer was done here. He leaned in, mouth near her ear, and tried to be subtle about inhaling her soft scent. “Thank you for the company. Merry Christmas,” he whispered, and then he walked out the door.

  He needed to let Trina be. Completely. A drive home with the windows down and the radio up should clear his head and get rid of whatever insanity had settled in.

  He hoped.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Trina’s thoughts whirred and stalled and kicked up again, but none of it helped her wrap her head around what just happened with Spencer. Showing up out of the blue, leaving just as quickly, and at least a little flirting in-between.

  She tucked the questions aside, and unmuted her phone. “Merry Christmas,” she said to Tristan.

  While she talked to him, and then called her mom and dad, she wrapped things up at work and tidied the kitchen. She’d never look at Styrofoam boxes the same way again.

  Did she imagine the friction and tension flowing between her and Spencer? She was certain it lingered in the air and tasted like fine bourbon—a smooth burn, followed by heady abandon.

  That was a problem. She couldn’t think straight with him around.

  An insane thought popped into her head, and she couldn’t shake it. He made it sound like finding the right guy was doable. If she was going about it the wrong way, and wanted to meet a guy like him...

  No. That was stupid. She wasn’t going to ask him something like, teach me how to meet guys like you, so I can finally get laid.

  It was a good thing she didn’t have a reason to see Spencer again. With him gone, she could admit another encounter with him, alone in an apartment, confessions about sex or lack thereof on table, seemed like a bad idea.

  Asking for his help wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? As they saying went, the worst he could do was say no. Which would leave her humiliated, but she never had to see him again. Until the next time she had to do onsite support for his company.

  Indecision warred inside, temptation clashing harder with logic than it should.

  Damn her brain.

  SPENCER DIDN’T REMEMBER the last time driving home was so uncomfortable. All thanks to his cock straining against his jeans.

  He walked in his house, trying to shake the night from his head. It was such a simple conversation, and then he had to bring sex into things. He’d been having a hard time getting Trina out of his head as it was... Fantasizing about the things they could get up to... Imagining stripping her down and running his mouth along her body...

  It was such a bad place for his mind to travel. There was nothing but complication in the situation.

  That didn’t stop him from thinking about the variety of ways he’d like to make her moan and gasp and scream. He headed for his room, stripped off his clothes, and lay on top of the comforter.

  The images that had teased him all night rushed back in a series of fractured stills. Fantasy mingled with reality. Knowing how she sounded, how she smelled, made everything more vivid.

  Now he could do something about it. He fisted his shaft and stopped fighting the thoughts. He stroked as he imagined sliding inside Trina. How wet and slick she was. How good she’d feel, her pussy gripping him tight.

  And her voice... He bet she slid from shy to playful to enthusiastic when she was turned on.

  He worked himself faster, tightening his grip on his dick as he pictured slamming inside her. Or feeling those full lips wrap around him. Burying his face between her legs and licking her juices. Maybe bending her over the desk in the server room.

  Spencer came hard, shuddering and jerking until he was spent, and his hand and stomach were a sticky mess.

  He collapsed back against the mattress, exhaustion sinking in and bringing clarity with it. For the first time in several hours, he could think.

  Something about this girl tied his brain in knots and stole his reason. That was dangerous on so many levels, several of which he was sure he had yet to consider. There was only one solution to that, and it was keeping his distance.

  Simple enough. He did that for fourteen years without trying.

  But first, he needed to clean up and get some sleep.

  His phone chimed from its spot on the nightstand, and he rolled his head to the side, to stare at the device.

  It chirped again, then twice more within a few seconds.

  He frowned and reached for it with his clean hand. He was going to be pissed if something else failed at work.

  It’s Trina. I swiped your number from the customer database. Don’t be mad.

  I’ve been thinking. Too much. And I bet you’re already asleep. By the time you wake up, I’m going to regret sending these.

  Except I don’t regret it. Childish and silly, right?

  Anyway. My point. Who knew nervous travels over text?

  As he read, another message came in, bumping up from the bottom. Would you be interested in continuing our conversation? Maybe—you know—giving me some pointers on what we talked about?

  Probably not. Why would you waste time, teaching me how to catch a guy’s eye, when you probably have your pick of women? God. There’s the regret. Can I delete these?

  Should I?

  The smart move would be to tell her, It was fun, but you’ll find a nice guy on your own. Include a little reassurance. Make sure she knew it wasn’t about her.

  His thumb froze over the screen, and he stared at her messages.

  One more chimed on the screen. I’m not taking it back. If you read these when you wake up, delete them or reply. At least I know I asked.

  Indecision tumbled inside, and he dropped the phone next to him on the blanket.

  There was the answer he should send, and the answer he wanted to send, and they were so far from each other on the spectrum, they weren’t in the same universe.

  He grabbed his phone and typed. What are you doing New Year’s Eve?

  If she only wanted a few pointers, he could do that. He was looking out for a friend’s sister. Making sure she didn’t end up with some creep. Nothing more. If he put effort into it, not ghosting her, but gently nudging her toward someone else—from a distance—they’d both be better off.

  Fuck, this was a bad idea. And one he couldn’t make himself backpedal on.

  SPENCER CRACKED HIS eyes open and rolled his head to the side, to look at the clock by his bed. It was eleven. By the way the sun struck his face through slats in the blinds, he assumed in the morning.

  A dull throb pounded in his temples. Last night and this morning rushed back, and the ache increased. But a whisper of euphoria rode on top of it, like being hungover and still drunk at the same time.

  He grabbed his phone and scrolled through the conversation with Trina again. He hadn’t imagined it. They were going out New Year’s Eve, and he was going to show her how to pick up guys.

  Keep her safe. Make sure she doesn’t end up in a bad situation.

  Even after a few hours of sleep, he didn’t believe himself. But he had a week for the necessity of keeping his hands to himself to sink in.

  He spent the rest of the day catching up on work, while classic Christmas movies played in the background. The problem with being up all night was that it threw off his sleep schedule.

  The fact that he didn’t pass out until almost two in the morning had nothing to do with how hard he was working to keep his mind off Trina. That would make h
im obsessive, and he wasn’t.

  He was considering investing in a coffee franchise when he woke up the next morning and realized he was out of the life-giving beans. Or maybe hiring a few developers to invent him an app that was connected to an alarm clock that made sure the user didn’t hit snooze, and delivered fresh coffee at their door five minutes later.

  That sounded like a lot of work, but it could be entertaining to market.

  He had to be at the office early, anyway. He’d do coffee like a normal person—prepared by a stranger and handed to him through a small window.

  Spencer praised the traffic gods and the fact that a lot of people had the day off, for the lighter-than-normal commute. When he got to the office, he settled in to work. He was closing on a new building next week, and after that, they’d begin the lengthy task of moving an entire corporate office into a new working space.

  The logistics were complicated, but he had a good staff to work on that. He made some suggestions on a proposal from Reservations, and moved on to the next task on his list.

  He fired off a quick note to Trina’s boss, letting him know she was a big help with the emergency call Christmas Eve. Credit where credit was due, and not for any other reason.

  His cellphone played the opening chimes of The Imperial March. He rolled his eyes, not in the mood to talk to his ex-wife. It was better to answer now, though, than let it fester. He turned the phone on speaker. “Yeah.”

  “Hey, Spence. We missed you at Midnight Mass.” Mia’s voice was polite.

  He snarled at the nickname. “Couldn’t make it. Had to work. I hope it was a blast.” He could be as pleasant as she was.

  “Too bad.” She sighed. “Do you have a minute?”

  They were skipping the rest of the formalities. Fantastic. “For you, anything.”

  “You’re so sweet. So, Larry was looking over our prenup—”