by Pippa Grant
“Out!” she screeches.
Before I can recover from the sudden whiplash, she pushes me into the kitchenette. I spin around, and she’s standing between me and a dude who’s not quite as tall as me, but who has the kind of square jaw and haircut that suggests he could model for a military romance cover.
And Parker’s facing him with one hand on her hip, the other pointing furiously at the door.
“Who are you?” I grab Parker by the shoulders and try to move in front of her, but she elbows me in the gut.
“Stay back,” she orders.
“This him?” the intruder asks with a nod at me.
“I swear to god, Rhett, if you SEAL your way into my apartment one more time, I will—I’ll—I’ll do something you’ll regret.”
So she knows him. That should be reassuring, but it’s not.
“You’re a cream puff,” he says to Parker.
I could second that, except I don’t like this guy, or the idea that he knows anything about Parker’s cream puff. “Who the fuck are you?” I repeat.
“Who the fuck are you?”
He doesn’t move, but there’s something lethal in his stance, like he knows there’s an army of ninjas sneaking up behind me and even if there wasn’t, he could take me out with his pinky toe.
“He’s my jackass little brother,” Parker says. “And he’s leaving.”
“No, I’m not,” the jackass little brother replies. So he doesn’t mean cream puff the same way I do. And I don’t think Parker means little brother the same way I do either, because there’s nothing little about this guy.
“It’s Taco Tuesday,” he adds.
Again, he probably doesn’t mean that the same way I do.
Parker’s still pointing at the door, and she’s thrusting her finger harder with every word. “Go get your own tacos.”
Somehow, I think she might mean that the same way I do.
“Mom wants to meet him. It’s my job to make that happen.”
Pretty sure I understood that one perfectly. I hold out a hand. “Knox Moretti,” I say.
“Don’t—” Parker starts, then stops herself with a sigh when her brother grips my hand and squeezes like my hand is a stress ball and he has so much stress that his stress is overstressed and nothing short of turning my hand to a squishy, bloody pulp will relieve his pent-up frustrations.
“Rhett Elliott,” little brother says. “You’re Mr. Romance. You’re in trouble.”
In so many ways, but I assume he’s talking about me being in trouble for putting a finger on his sister. “Your sister’s an intelligent woman who doesn’t need your approval to date men.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Parker shoves him. He doesn’t budge. “Let go, Rhett.”
His grip tightens to diamond-crushing strength. Could I keep up? Yes. Am I going to play his game and try to suffocate his hand right back? Not a fucking chance I’ll give him that satisfaction.
Still, I’m holding my hand with one finger extended. Harder to crush that way.
“Pansy-ass handshake,” he says.
“I save my pissing contests for worthy opponents.”
Parker growls at both of us. “Knox doesn’t keep farm animals, the only time he’s pulled out his phone on a date was to show me his virtual bookshelves, and he doesn’t know about Brooks, so let go.” She punctuates the demand with a pinch to the back of his elbow, and his grip loosens.
I do actually know about their brother Brooks, but I keep my mouth shut.
“He’s in trouble at work,” Rhett says, and again, I’m caught off-guard.
“Quit stalking my boyfriends. I really wish Mom had been the kind to eat her young.” She turns to me. “What kind of trouble? Is this about your blog?”
This time, it’s not my favorite parts going stiff. “He tells you I’m in trouble and you blindly believe it?”
“It’s easier that way.”
“I’m a fucking god,” Rhett says.
“You’re a pain in my ass,” Parker snaps. “All four of you are.”
He treats her to a noogie. She gets him in the solar plexus with an elbow and he actually oofs and angles out of reach. She turns back at me expectantly. “Are you in trouble at work?”
That was what the flowers were for. “The Times called my regional manager asking for an interview.”
Her light brows furrow. “About the dick piece?”
“About the dick piece.”
“So the Times thinks your personal blog is sanctioned by the library now?”
She’s quick. I nod.
“They’re serious about being dicks.”
“Yep.” Because an official library blog won’t call any reporter a dick. For any reason. Welcome to my suddenly very gray world.
“You’re doing the interview, of course,” she tells me. “You basically have to if you want to keep your job. And you do want to keep your job, don’t you?”
I cut a glance at her brother, who’s gone totally still in a creepy way with an ugly gleam in his eyes. As though he knows what the problem is—that I have a playboy reputation and suddenly need his sister to play my doting girlfriend just as much as she needs me to play her doting boyfriend—and he’s just waiting for me to say it so he can justify trying to crush another part of my anatomy.
“Yep,” I say instead.
Parker studies me.
I don’t blink.
She turns to her brother. “Rhett, get out before I tell Mom you knocked up Stacy Benson in high school.”
He doesn’t move. If the threat’s registering, he has a top-notch game face.
“And who broke the Mary in her nativity set.”
“Fucker,” he mutters. He moves toward the couch.
Parker snaps her fingers. “Out the door.”
“So fucking picky.”
But he obeys, and Parker follows him. On his way out, he makes eye contact with me one last time. Hurt her and you’ll wish you’d died is pretty much the message I get.
I send back a same to you, asshole, and the door shuts on him. She flips the lock, slides the chain, and locks the deadbolt, then follows it with one of the chairs jammed under the knob.
“Will that keep him out?” I ask.
“It’ll slow him down. But the window’s the bigger threat. Fucking SEAL.”
I’ve read a lot of SEAL books, but I’ve never read one exactly like Parker’s brother. “Tacos?” I say.
Because much as I didn’t want my blog turning into business instead of pleasure, it has. Lucky me, I have a workaholic fake girlfriend to help me through it.
18
Parker
Maybe it was the orgasm, or maybe it was the buzz of feeling like I was rescuing a guy from my bonehead brother, or maybe it’s just the thrill of feeling needed for something, but when we sit down on the couch with our tacos, I’m riding a high I’ve never felt before.
“So your boss is afraid the Times is going to label you as some kind of perv using romance novels to score with women?” I ask as I unwrap a carnitas taco.
Knox tilts his head to look at me like I’ve once again sprouted something phallic out of my ears, and I wonder if I’ve misread the situation.
“It amazes me that you know that.”
“Lucky guess.” Or possibly I read one of his posts about the weird things people say to dudes who love romance novels when I was looking into him before the bachelor auction, because it’s unusual to find a man so vocal about loving romance.
Based on that slow smile spreading over his deliciously kissable lips, I suspect he knows it. “Parker Parker Elliott, you told me you don’t read romance novels.”
“You never asked if I read your blog.” Honestly, it’s one of the things I like about him. He doesn’t ask Do you read my blog? He doesn’t put himself anywhere in the question. It’s all about the books for him. “Just how much trouble are you in?”
I bite into my taco—which I would’ve called my favorite k
ind of heaven before Knox crawled under my desk earlier—and sigh happily as he unwraps his own taco.
“Have a big program coming up,” he tells me. “Romance and Chocolate. Same day as your reunion, but in the afternoon. Some big-name authors and bloggers. My boss is working on getting the Times to commit to being there. And in the meantime, I’m supposed to be on my very best behavior.”
“Very best behavior?”
His lips settle in a grim line, which looks completely wrong on him.
“Ah,” I say. “So you basically can’t even talk to women at work.”
“I need to be a model romance hero.” He winks at me, but it’s not his full-strength get me out of trouble wink. “We need a picture so I can tell people about my brilliant girlfriend.”
“Yeah, the flavor of the week’s going to get you out of all kinds of trouble,” I tease back. “What you need is a temporary wife.”
He laughs. “I’ve read that book. Probably close to eighty-seven of them. You know how they all end?”
“In disaster?”
“In true love and happily ever after.”
I give a big shudder. “The horror.”
“But…” He tilts a thoughtful glance at me, then shakes his head.
“What?”
He shakes his head again and bites into his taco.
“You want to get married?” I ask.
I swear any other man would’ve choked. But not Knox. Nope, he flashes me another wink, like he’s seriously considering getting married to save his job. I hope he remembers he’s playing my fiancé—not just my boyfriend—when we show up for my reunion.
“Hell, what’s another quickie marriage between friends?” I say.
And that’s when his dinner goes flying across my living room.
My face burns hotter than fire salsa as he looks at me—really looks at me. He finishes wiping his mouth, glances at the scattered bits of meat and cheese and tortilla on my rug, and then back at me. “Another?”
I leap off the couch and head to the kitchen for a towel.
“Parker?”
“Man, you should’ve seen the look on your face,” I say too brightly. “Gotcha.”
He’s not buying it.
“Your ex,” he says softly. “At the reunion. You meant ex-husband.”
I squat to the floor and set about picking up the spewed taco. “Technically, an annulment means you were never married,” I say quietly.
“Who?”
Bye-bye, lingering afterglow. “Randy Pickle.”
He absorbs that for a moment. Before he can comment, I press on. “He’s doing this thing with organic, indoor-grown hops. Chase—my boss—heard about it and wants to expand our house brand from just vegetables to breads and cheeses and beer, so—”
“So your boss can fucking call him on the phone.”
“He’s tried. You have to understand Randy. He was a big dork too, and—”
“You’re not going to your reunion.”
I snap straight. If I could Go-Go-Gadget my arm halfway across the room, I’d have him by the ear right now. “Excuse me?”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “If you didn’t have to talk to Randy Pickle, would you go?”
I glare at him. That’s a ridiculous question with a stupidly easy answer, and he’s too smart to not know it. “If I were a man, and I needed to talk to an old classmate who was unreachable everywhere except his class reunion, I’d fucking go to the fucking class reunion. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“What makes you think this Randy guy is even going to be there?”
“He’ll be there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. And you’re going to be my hot piece of ass making me look like I have just as great of a life as everyone else there will be pretending to have, and I’m going to seal this deal with Randy and prove I’m worthy of my top-floor office.”
I’m not going to cry. Vice presidents don’t cry.
They also don’t get eaten out under their desks—no, wait… Odds are good if I were a man, I wouldn’t think twice about that either.
“But if you don’t want to go anymore,” I say stiffly, “I understand.”
He rises and comes to join me on the floor, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You’re not going alone.”
Yeah, now I’m going to cry. But I suck it all in and force my voice to stay level as I nod at him. “Thank you.”
His lips lower to mine, and what starts as soft and gentle quickly turns hot and handsy. He’s palming my breast, sucking on my tongue, gripping my hair, and I pull him down on top of me, settling him between my thighs and rubbing myself all over that hard bulge in his pants.
Someone bangs on the window. I jump. Knox goes still and alert.
“Get your hands off my sister, jackass,” Rhett says.
“Your brother’s an asshole,” Knox says.
“You don’t know the half of it.” I love my brothers—all four of them—but they’ve gone overboard on this overprotective thing for reasons that may be obvious by now. “He’s not going to go away until he gets some tacos.”
Knox pinches his lips together, once again visibly fighting a smile as he dips his head into the crook of my neck.
“No, you’re not getting any more taco tonight,” I say glumly.
He’s laughing as he presses a kiss to my shoulder while the window slides open and Rhett easily slips in. I know he used the fire escape, but I sometimes suspect he actually can climb the side of buildings with his bare hands.
“That’s where babies come from,” Rhett says. “Mom will be thrilled.”
He digs into my taco bag, and with a sigh, I push Knox off. “You should get a picture together,” I tell Knox. “Put it on your blog. How many SEAL romances have you recommended?”
Rhett, predictably, snorts in derision. “I don’t pose for pansy-ass blogs.”
“You do if you want to eat my tacos.” I nudge Knox, who’s sitting with his knees up, resigned amusement lingering in his eyes. “And you should put up that picture of you and the baby on your Facebook page. Now. That’s as anti-dick as you can get.”
He pulls his phone out. “Yep.”
But as his thumb hovers on the home screen, I see a text light up. And even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help reading it.
Had a great time last week. Call me.
From Lila Valentine.
Personal assistant to reclusive billionaire Dalton Wellington, and the woman who paid a hundred grand to win Knox in the bachelor auction.
I quickly glance away, because I don’t have the right to this weird green monster roaring to life inside me. We have a mutually-beneficial business arrangement with a side of sex.
Not a real relationship with feelings.
Because that would be horrible.
19
Knox
With Parker’s coaching and approval from Gertie, I’ve kept my blog and social media posts hot through the rest of the week.
I gave a Gertie-approved interview to USA Today’s Happy Ever After blog where, in addition to enthusiastically recommending some of my favorite reads and talking about my favorite parts of the romance community without calling anyone names, I mentioned I was quietly dating someone who didn’t own a library card—Parker’s brilliant suggestion—and that the rest of my story was private.
What Parker failed to mention was that declining the other requests for interviews could actually add fuel to the fire. I hadn’t wanted to do more interviews—my blog is for fun, not for work—but the more I say no, the more requests come flooding in. It’s cutting into my reading time, and I’m getting annoyed.
Also, I haven’t seen her since Tuesday, when her brother effectively cock-blocked me and taco-blocked her, but we’ve talked on the phone at least twice a day since. Sometimes she’s advising me on what to post on my Facebook or Snapchat pages. Not because I want my life ruled by social media, but because helping me apparently makes her hap
py.
Sometimes I’m coaching her on the art of phone sex. Not because she’s bad at sex, but because we both enjoy it, though I’m jonesing for some in-person follow-through.
This afternoon, when I get off my morning shift at the library, we’re doing Sopapilla Saturday. Hopefully followed by my favorite s-word. Mom and Nana are tied up with Steph and Troy, doing last-minute prep work for my niece’s birthday party tomorrow, which means we’ll have my apartment all to ourselves. And we’ll spend it in my bedroom, with the door locked, just in case.
But first, I have to get through this shift at the library. I’ve been working since nine to finalize some last-minute details for the Romance and Chocolate program. This program is usually the highlight of my entire year.
This year, I’m honestly looking forward to it being over.
Probably because the Times has agreed to cover it, which means instead of enjoying myself, I have to cater to the snobs.
No surprise they don’t like being called dicks, but I suspect it was more the volume of outrage all over social media, with my blog leading the charge, that prompted them to investigate what they’re missing.
I started this mess. Now it’s my job to clean it up. While giving the Times an education—and an interview—along the way.
And then my blog can go back to being just for fun, I can reclaim my reading time, and I’ll help Parker nail her pitch to Randy Pickle at her reunion so we can both get back to life as normal.
A weird bubble squeezes in my chest at the thought of life as normal.
I ignore it.
It’s finally almost two, when I’m officially off for the day, so I close up my computer, wave to my coworkers, step out of our office area and freeze.
Lila Valentine is chatting with Gertie at the circulation desk just inside the door.
“Hey, sweetie!” Parker leaps off one of the front reading chairs and charges me, hair tied back tight in a bun, her outfit today tight dark jeans, a peach tank top, and a white cardigan. She has that mix of strict librarian and casual Saturday goddess working for her, and the action Jackson in my pants leaps to attention.
