The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  So I can’t screw resistance.

  I collect myself, gently move her off me, and affect a good-boy smile. “Look, I’m not even aroused anymore.”

  That’s a lie. I’m sporting huge wood.

  Her eyes drift to my lap. “Yup. Not even aroused in the least. Nor am I.”

  I roam my eyes over her. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. Beaded nipples. “Good. Because you don’t seem turned on at all.”

  “I’m so not turned on. I totally wasn’t about to orgasm.”

  I shrug nonchalantly. “I definitely wasn’t on the cusp of coming in my shorts like a teenager.”

  She laughs, letting her head fall into her hands as she cracks up.

  When the laughter subsides, she stands, her hair messed up, her cheeks rosy. “Listen, we need to behave. We both want and need the same thing. We need each other as roomies, not as lovers. Besides, neither one of us wants anything more.”

  “Exactly. Screw relationships. Let’s have some grub.”

  And on that cock-blocked note, I head into the kitchen and cook for my woman.

  I mean, my landlord.

  The hot, sexy landlord who nearly came on my lap.

  19

  Perri

  I do have excellent resistance.

  Well, most of the time.

  I’m not winning any medals in restraint tonight, but I’m disciplined in general and always have been. In college, at the academy, at work now—I get in, do the work, go the distance.

  But there’s always temptation to lose focus, and Derek McBride is the strongest temptation I’ve ever known. But temptation doesn’t pay the bills. That’s why I used the trick I learned ages ago to yank myself out of nightmares—count loudly to three and wake myself up. Making out with Derek, and riding his hot, hard ridge, was a flirty, dirty dream rather than a nightmare, but the same trick worked.

  One, two, three.

  And I was out of the zone.

  Now here I am, in the kitchen, watching him cook.

  The sight of him making my dinner is testing me, and I’d like to snake my hands around those abs, explore his twelve-pack, and trace all his ink.

  Must resist . . .

  One, two, three.

  There. Better.

  But still, there’s just something about a man who can make a meal.

  Double points if that meal is for me.

  And triple points if he surprises me, which he’s doing. He’s not just throwing together the basics. He’s whipping up a chicken stir-fry, adding in asparagus, carrots, and peppers then tossing in spices, and my mouth is watering.

  “You might be the perfect roommate,” I say as I pour myself a glass of wine and offer him a beer.

  He arches a brow as he sautés the chicken. “How do we have beer? Pretty sure I forgot to pick some up when I was at the store. I bet I was undressing you in my head in that aisle, and that’s how it happened. Slipped my mind when I slipped off your shirt.”

  Laughing, I grab a bottle of pale ale. “I snagged some myself. I had a feeling you were a beer man. Was I right?”

  He looks over at me, a smile edging his lips. “You picked up beer for me?”

  “Why, yes, I am the perfect housemate. Go ahead and say it.”

  He winks. “Perfect landlord. And yes, I’m a beer man. But I’m an everything man, truth be told. Tonight, though, I’ll take a beer gladly.”

  I uncap it for him, and he accepts, tipping the neck against my wineglass. “To your resistance. May we see how long it lasts.”

  I clink my glass. “It’ll last so long.”

  He shakes his head, smiling as he turns down the burner.

  A few minutes later, he’s served the stir-fry.

  I grab the plates. “Want to eat standing up?”

  He scoffs. “Kitten, I made you a meal. Sit your ass down at the table.”

  “Well, la-di-da.” I shake my ass as I move to the table.

  “Yes, do that. Do more of that, and I won’t feel bad at all at my resistance cracking in two.”

  I shake my butt once more before I sit.

  “Temptress,” he mutters as he digs into his food.

  I take a bite of the meal, and it’s delicious. “You can cook.”

  He wiggles his brows. “I can indeed.”

  “What other hidden talents do you have?”

  “I’m quite handy.”

  “Me too,” I say, grabbing another forkful.

  “That so?”

  “Can you imagine an un-handy cop? Lame.”

  “True that. What are you handy with?”

  “I can fix a washer. Hang a door. Change a tire.”

  He wipes a hand across his forehead. “You need to stop being so hot.”

  I lift my wineglass and enjoy another sip. “You have a thing for competent women?”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “Competence is so sexy.” I smile at that.

  We eat some more, and I ask him to tell me about his sister. “What’s Jodie like, besides being an amazing baker? Were you always close?”

  “We were. She’s five years older, so she’s been like a second mom my entire life. Her dolls became useless once I arrived. She doted on me instead.”

  I smile at the sweetness in his tone when he talks about her. “That’s adorable.”

  “I remember at one point when I was in middle school, my parents were talking about some changes in the dress code at school and Jodie said, ‘And what is Derek going to wear? Are you going to let him wear gym shorts to school? Because I don’t think it’s a good idea.’ And my dad said, ‘Well, we won’t have to worry because Derek has a third parent in you.’”

  I laugh. “That’s sweet and funny.”

  He takes a drink of his beer. “She’s always looked out for me, so I figure the least I can do is the same.”

  “And your parents? They’re not around?” I ask carefully.

  He shakes his head. “Died a few years ago. It’s just us.” But he doesn’t sound sad, more like he’s accustomed to this reality.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Me too, but they were older, and it was their time, I suppose.”

  I nod, understanding him. “I hear you. It’s still sad, but when you can make peace with a loss by knowing that—well, that’s a good thing.”

  “It is.” He takes another bite, chews, then adds, “Anyway, that’s probably another reason why Jodie and I are still close.”

  “Did she ask you to move here when her husband was assigned overseas?”

  “I volunteered. My contract was up in San Francisco and I’d heard about the gig, so it seemed like a good time. Plus, I was getting tired of the insanity in the city. I don’t mind the change.”

  “Is her husband in battle?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. He’s a military chaplain.”

  My ears perk. “Oh, that’s interesting. You don’t hear about that often.”

  “He’s a minister a few towns over. He had this chance, and Jodie wanted him to take it. He really wanted to help the troops.”

  My heart squeezes for his family, for the guts and bravery it takes to help others who put themselves on the front lines. “That’s lovely, and lovely, too, that you came up here to help.”

  “It’s nothing anyone else wouldn’t do.” He shrugs. “What about you? I take it you’re close to Shaw, even though it seemed like you wanted to wallop him the other day.”

  I laugh. “That about sums us up. We needle each other pretty much all the time. I think it’s because we’re eleven months apart. We’ve always competed for everything.”

  “Everything?”

  I finish my last bite and set down my fork. “Yup. We were in the same grade at school too.”

  He smiles. “No kidding.”

  I hold up a hand to vow. “It’s the truth. I was the youngest, and he was the oldest, and I was kind of crazy motivated, but he was too. We competed for everything—affection, praise, sports, grades, who did chores faster. It create
d this bizarre dynamic. Still does.”

  “But it works for you guys?”

  “Weirdly, yes. I love him madly, but he exasperates me, and I know he loves me, even if we want to kill each other sometimes.”

  We finish dinner and as we wash our plates, Derek mentions Arden. “I met your friend at the bookstore earlier. She said she’s known you since you were six.”

  I smile widely. “She’s like family to me. So is Vanessa. We’re all so close.”

  “She seems like she looks out for you. And I had the distinct impression you told her about me,” he says with a sly note as I set the last plate in the dish rack and turn off the faucet.

  I wipe my hands on a towel. “And what gave you that impression?”

  He shrugs in that way that cocky men do—casual, sexy, confident. “The way she checked out my ink. Almost as if she was told about it by a certain . . . kitten.”

  I snap the towel against his waist. He grabs it and tugs me close. “It’s okay that you like my tattoos. You can touch them too.”

  Like that, he lights the match, and the fire in me roars through the roof. I’m a flame around him.

  Maybe right now, I’m not so flame-resistant. I run my eager fingers up his strong, muscular arms, then down them too, tracing the sunbursts and bands, loving their look, savoring his skin.

  He murmurs, a husky, raspy sound that heats my blood, that makes a pulse beat between my legs.

  “There’s more to touch, Perri.”

  “I know,” I whisper, dancing my fingers down to his birds, tracing the outline of one, then another, traveling perilously close to the waistband of his shorts, and what lies beneath. What I desperately want more of.

  He breathes out hard, rough. For a second, maybe more, it hits me—I have this power over him. He wants me in the kind of bone-deep way I want him. Sure, he’s told me from day one, but his body says, undeniably, how much he craves me.

  Resistance, I remember.

  I need it.

  There’s so much at stake. The job. The rent, since I haven’t had a reliable tenant in ages. My goals, because I want that promotion. I’ve worked my butt off for it. I need to keep my eyes on the prize.

  I dust a quick kiss against his delicious lips. “No mercy, no sympathy.”

  “Damn your mantra.”

  “Our mantra,” I correct.

  He steps away, his dark eyes holding my gaze. “Kitten, I’d like to find out how strong your resistance is. And I fully intend to test it.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “You want to win your kissing contest, right?”

  “I do.”

  “Then we will be practicing every night. And you’ll be practicing your resistance. Mark my words.”

  With that, he turns, heads to the stairwell, then up and out of sight.

  It takes every ounce of my resistance not to follow him up the steps.

  20

  Perri

  The next morning, I find a note on the chalkboard.

  What about air kisses? That’s a category for sure. We could own that one.

  I laugh, grab a piece of chalk, and write under it.

  No doubt you’ll find a way to practice them.

  I snatch a peach and head to the backyard. After taking a bite of the fruit, I fill a pitcher from the spigot and water the plants on my deck, musing on air kisses as I feed the thirsty fern, the grateful tomato plant, and the ravenous blueberry bush.

  “All better now?” I say to the plants.

  They sigh contentedly, I imagine. I sigh happily too, chewing a bite of the peach as I wonder how exactly we’d own the air kiss category. We’d ace it . . . that’s the trouble.

  I head inside, toss the peach pit in the compost bin, erase my first note, and write a new one.

  After all, we’re in the midst of a new competition. A who-can-hold-out one. With a pastel blue piece of chalk, I write a new response in curlicue letters.

  I can absolutely resist your air kisses. Just try me.

  Dusting off my hands, I snag a spoon and grab a yogurt from the fridge. I dive in, feeling a little zip from my snappier retort. I pop in my earbuds as I eat at the counter—standing up, thank you very much—and I toggle over to the morning news, catching up on the latest in local politics, then check on press releases from nearby agencies before I switch to the scanner to see if there’s anything going down that I need to know about.

  I catch myself tensing, as I often do when I switch, braced for bad news. That’s, well, the reality of my job. But it’s relatively quiet, so I relax my shoulders with a sigh of relief. I finish my breakfast, then brush my teeth, dress in my uniform, and head to my car. As I hit the unlock button on the key fob, I hear the heavy thump of shoes.

  I spin around. Derek’s mere feet away from me, in his blue work pants and a T-shirt with the number of his EMS unit on it, looking like he’s ready to perform CPR or bandage a wound. Because he is.

  He mimes tipping his hat to me. “Morning, officer.”

  “Morning, troublemaker.”

  “You think I’m a troublemaker?” He scrubs a hand across the scruff on his face. That scruff. That lucky scruff.

  I’m scruff-resistant though. I lift my chin and cross my arms. “I know you’re a troublemaker.”

  His dark eyes twinkle with mischief, and his grin hints at exactly the kind of trouble he likes to make. “Is that so?” He comes closer, then closer still, until he’s inches away. His chest is dangerously near my arms. His lips are in my zone. My breath catches, and my senses do the salsa because he smells clean and freshly showered, and I sure do love that scent. I don’t think he wears cologne—it wouldn’t make sense for his job. But his unadorned scent works for my libido, because I love the natural soapy smell. I love it so much, I think I’m humming.

  “Mmm.”

  He gives a devilish grin. The most devilish grin. Then he quirks an eyebrow and leans in, dusting a kiss a centimeter, no, a millimeter, wait—a fraction of a millimeter from my cheek.

  My hum turns into a traitorous moan.

  He pulls back, his dark eyes full of naughty deeds.

  I lean against the metal of the car and swallow, catching my breath.

  He brushes the backs of his fingers along my jaw, and against my will, against my better judgment, I lean into the stroke of his hand, like a cat.

  “You’re right,” he whispers. “You are excellent at resisting air kissing. Need to up my game.”

  He winks and turns around.

  One, two, three.

  I recover speech. “You were toying with me?”

  He glances back. “Of course, kitten. You threw down the gauntlet last night. And you should have expected nothing less.”

  He strides out of the garage, heads to his bike in the driveway, and mounts it. Tugging the helmet on, he gives me one last knowing look, then peels away.

  I’m still standing at my car, stupidly turned on from an air kiss on a Friday morning.

  At work, Elias shows me his smoldering gaze.

  Then he displays his bump and grind.

  After that, he says he wants to demo what he calls the hippity-hop.

  I raise my hand like I’m in school. “What on earth is a hippity-hop?”

  “Picture me riding a pogo stick.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Oh, c’mon. My viral video is going to be big.”

  I’m at my desk tackling paperwork before I hit the streets. I wasn’t planning to be a dance judge.

  But I sigh. “Fine. Do it.”

  He jumps up and down as Jansen strolls by. “Nicholson, I hope you never defile my eyes again with that move.”

  Elias’s face sinks. “Seriously, Chief? You don’t think I have game?”

  “I’ll think you’ll have game when you do this.” Chief stops, shimmies his hips, then adds in a snap of his finger.

  Holy smokes. My boss can dance. “Chief, you need to be in the video with Nicholson.”

  Jansen s
miles and winks. “If you’re doing a viral video, you need to have the right moves.”

  I laugh, look at Elias, and point to the boss. “Evidently, he knows what they are.”

  Jansen claps Elias on the shoulder and shows him a few dance moves, and I smile at first, but then a new emotion digs into me. Worry. Is Elias a better contender for the job? Is this dance video going to seal the deal for him? More importantly, am I a fool for thinking a kissing contest has any bearing on a promotion?

  I answer the question for myself. The contest is simply a fun thing to do, a bet with friends, and a chance to raise money for rescue workers.

  I’m not going to win the promotion with a kiss. Puh-lease.

  I’m a cop, not a performer.

  I’m going to win it with work. Good old-fashioned, nose-to-the-grindstone work. I reroute my focus to the daily grind, making sure all my reports are spit-shined and polished, then spend a few extra minutes reviewing the jewelry store case.

  Something nags at my brain, a potential suspect we didn’t consider seriously, and I mention it to the chief later in the day.

  He scrubs a hand across his jaw. “That’s a possibility, Keating. That’s a damn fine thought. Keep looking into it.”

  “I will, sir.”

  I ignore the fact that he’s humming Elias’s hip-hop tune as I leave his office.

  “And that’s how you have happy abs!” The declaration comes from the Pilates instructor, who’s vicious and cruel the next afternoon. In a nutshell, she’s everything I want a Pilates instructor to be.

  “Thanks, Millie,” Vanessa says, and I add my thanks too.

  My core barks at me, spewing invectives as I head out of the studio. “Nothing like Saturday traffic duty followed by Pilates,” I say.

  “Sounds like a perfect day. Did you nab any speeders?”

  “Lots of them over on Hollowstone. Just like the chief wanted me to do.”