by Lili Valente
“Well, that was a nice reason for a lie, at least,” I say, enjoying the way the late evening light warms the stones of the red brick homes lining the street. “Nice neighborhood. You lived here long?”
“Three years.” She sighs heavily, clearly determined not to make small talk easy for me.
“I’ve been in my place five. It’s crazy that we haven’t run into each other before. I jog through here all the time after I finish running the High Line.”
“Speaking of crazy…” She stops beside a planter overflowing with petunias on a stoop filled with so many flowerpots there’s barely room to climb the steps. “One last time, I have to repeat that I think this is a bad idea. Can we please, please, please meet up tomorrow morning instead? We can spend the night brainstorming and start fresh with coffee and bagels. My treat.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets and tilt my head back, admiring the antique molding around the windows, answering her pleas the way I have the past sixteen times she’s asked me to go home—by changing the subject. “What floor are you?” My gaze tracks back and forth from the sixth floor to the first. “I’m going to guess first or…third.”
“Why’s that?” Her shoulders slump in defeat as she fishes her keys out of her purse.
“You seem like the white, gauzy curtains type.” I follow her up the steps. “Though I guess I could see you with blue flowers, or that who-cares-what-my-windows-look-like shade of beige. But not the superheroes, unless there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
“The superheroes belong to Milo, who is seven and adorable. And you, my friend, are wrong, wrong, and wrong.” A smirk curves her lips as she fits her key into the lock. “I’m the second floor.”
My brows lift. “No curtains.”
“No curtains.” She cocks her head, looking up at me through half-closed lids. “I like to walk around naked after my shower and give the firefighters who live across the street a free show. I feel it’s the least I can do to show my appreciation for Ladder Twelve.”
I swallow, trying not to imagine Cat naked and fresh from the shower, and failing miserably. Spending the past few hours riding the subway and waging a battle of wills with the most stubborn woman in the universe, I’d managed to push the attraction I feel for her to the back of my mind. Now, it comes rushing back again, hitting me hard enough to make my blood rush and my head feel light for reasons that have nothing to do with missing my afternoon snack.
“Not smart,” I say, gruffly, covering the flash of awareness with irritation. “Considering you’re being stalked by a creep with a camera, curtains would probably be a good idea.”
“Relax, I’m kidding.” She rolls her eyes as she opens the door. “I have blinds. I put them down at night or when I’m home and want privacy, but I leave everything open during the day. Fang likes to jump up on the couch and keep an eye on what’s happening on the street.”
“Fang?” I follow her through a tidy entryway where a folded stroller leans against one wall, making me think Milo isn’t the only kid in the building.
“My guard dog,” she says as we climb the narrow stairwell. “He’s pretty vicious. In fact, you’d better let me go in first and get him calmed down before you make an entrance.”
“And give you the chance to lock me out?” I shift around her to lean against her door. “No, thanks. I’ll take my chances with Fang.”
Her mouth puckers. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”
“Nah,” I say, with a shrug. “Just smart enough, I guess.”
“Well, if your smart ass gets bitten, don’t come crying to me. I’ve been training Fang to attack on command.” Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Sometimes he waits for the command; sometimes he doesn’t.”
I nod. “Got it. No crying to you. But I’m good with dogs. I’m sure Fang and I will get along just fine.”
She mumbles something unintelligible beneath her breath, and then, with one final sigh of resignation, she unlocks the door and swings it wide. “Fang! I’m home!” she shouts as she reaches over to push a code into the security system panel on the wall.
Her words are answered by high-pitched yapping and the light scrabble of claws on hardwood. A second later, a honey brown Chihuahua skids around the corner into the entry hall with a big smile on its face, its pencil-thin legs churning as it struggles to change directions on the slick floor.
A moment later, the terrifying guard dog collides with his mistress’s feet and begins full-body wagging hard enough to lift his paws off the floor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The dog probably weighs about eight pounds soaking wet and, aside from a quick sniff of my shoes and a lick at the hem of my jeans, seems to have zero interest in protecting his mama from the stranger who just breezed into his house.
“Fang, I presume,” I say dryly, closing the door behind me.
“Fearsome Fang, actually.” Cat drops to her knees to scoop the blissed-out pup into her arms. “Fifi for short.”
“He’s terrifying.”
“He’s a she,” she says. “There’s a way to tell boys from girls, Aidan. We can talk about it later, after the puppy’s gone to bed, if you want. I’m waiting to talk to her about the birds and the bees until after she’s been fixed.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. Do you need to walk Killer?” I meet her smartass with more bone dry, motioning toward the leash and tiny red leather harness hanging on the coatrack inside the door. “And, FYI, if I’d known you had an animal waiting at home that needed to go out, I would have insisted you get over your stubborn streak sooner.”
“Fang is fine.” She glares at me as she scratches Fifi’s scruff until the dog’s tongue lolls out in pleasure. “I have friends who walk her at noon and five during the week while I’m at work. I would never let my dog suffer because some big idiot is insisting he knows how to handle my life better than I do.”
My jaw clenches, her words getting under my skin in a way they haven’t all day. But then even the patron saint of patience probably had a breaking point.
“You came to me for help,” I say, voice so low it vibrates through my ribs. “I assume that meant you had some faith in my judgment.”
“How can you judge anything when you won’t even listen to what I’m saying?” she asks, brows drawing together. “You used to listen.”
“I did listen.” I step closer, summoning a soft growl from Fang that’s about as scary as a box full of cupcakes. “And I evaluated your apprehensions against my own concern for your welfare, and I made a judgment call.”
Her lips part, but I cut her off before she can start arguing with me again.
“And that’s the way it’s going to be for the rest of our working relationship. I will listen to and respect your opinion, but in the end I’m going to choose the course of action that’s most likely to result in you remaining in one piece. That’s the job you hired me to do, and I’m going to do it.”
Her eyes flash, anger and something more intimate flickering in their green depths. “You just can’t stand to let anyone else take the lead, can you?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Give me a break, Red.”
“I would love to,” she snaps. “Go home. Take a break. Come back tomorrow. I’ll be in a better mood after not riding the subway for four hours.”
“That’s on you, Catherine.” I force a smile even though my jaw is so tight it feels like it’s about to snap in two. “If you hadn’t kept beating a dead horse, we could have been couching it with a beer hours ago and maybe making some real progress on solving your mobster problem.”
She makes a choked sound. “Was that a Godfather joke? Are you joking about this?”
“No, I’m not joking,” I snap. “I’m here to keep you alive, sweetheart, not to entertain you.”
Fang growls again, but this time I have a feeling it has more to do with Cat’s fingers digging into the dog’s tiny chest than me being too close for comfort.
I shoot her hand a pointed glanc
e before lifting a brow. “You okay?”
“I’m fucking fantastic.” She leans down to set Fifi on the floor before stepping in close enough that the sharp toes of her sandals jab into the front of my shoes. “But don’t you dare call me sweetheart. Ever. I know all about your history with that word, and I want no part of it.”
“Are you sure?” I can’t resist the urge to rattle her cage, even though I know it’s not smart. I should be pacifying her and behaving professionally and getting us back on track to solving the Nico problem.
But damn it, she gets under my skin the way she always did. Like no other woman ever has. And she started us down this unprofessional road when she lied on her application and then gave me hours of shit for the sin of doing my damnedest to protect her. Now it’s my turn to be a pain in her ass.
I lift an arm, bracing my hand on the wall behind her, bringing my face closer to hers. “I’m not sure I believe you, Cat. You seemed pretty into it this morning, when I had you up against that limo and you couldn’t keep your hands off of me.”
“That was an act,” she says through gritted teeth. “Sadly, for you, that ship sailed eleven years ago.”
“Did it?” I lean even closer, continuing in a soft, husky voice. “So if I’d run my hand up your thigh this morning your panties wouldn’t have been wet? Not even a little bit?”
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t respond. At least not verbally. But her breath comes faster, and her pupils dilate, giving me enough encouragement to continue in a whisper, “You weren’t wet, Red? For me? Because even though you should have been worried about the man following you, all you could think about was my hands on you and my mouth on you and how much you wanted more of all of the above?”
Her skin flushes a pink so deep it’s almost fuchsia, a color I’ve only ever seen on a redhead and only when he or she was deeply mortified.
But I know this particular redhead well enough to know this blush isn’t her embarrassed blush. It’s her “I’m about to take you down” blush. And damn it, a part of me hopes she goes for my throat. Right now, there are few things I would enjoy more than wrestling Red until we’re both hot and bothered.
Until I have her hands trapped over her head and her body pinned beneath mine and her legs wrapped around my waist squeezing so tight I can feel her pussy throbbing between her thighs. Feel her pulsing against my cock, letting me know she’s as turned on as I am.
And she will be turned on. She’s already turned on.
She can glare and huff and spit insults at me all she wants, but her nipples are tight beneath that sexy little dress, and her lips are parted, and every warm puff of her breath against my mouth is a challenge I’m dying to accept. I’m about to kiss her—willing to risk a fist in my face for another taste of her sweet mouth—when she holds up a hand between us and says, “I invoke Religious Advice,” and I have no choice but to stand down.
Once a Dasher, always a Dasher, and when a fellow member calls for Religious Advice, aka, a Top Secret, No Bullshit, Honest to a Fault meeting of the minds (usually involving at least a case of beer), there’s only one thing to do: get a drink in your hand and prepare to hear something your friend has never told someone else. Something so secret and scary she’s had to invoke sacred space to get it off of her chest.
As I stare down into Cat’s wide, troubled eyes I have a feeling I’m not going to like what she has to say.
But what else is new?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
From the text archives of Curved for her Pleasure
and Polka Dot Panties
To Curve from Panties: Okay, spill. I have to know how you did it.
From Curve: Did what? Finally managed to create a trail you couldn’t finish in less than ninety minutes?
Skill, Panties.
Skill and technique and a commitment to excellence.
And I checked out a book on tracking animals in the wild and tried to be smarter than a wild animal. It was tough, but I managed.
Panties: No, not that, though that was a nice surprise. I like it when you challenge me.
Excellence comes so easily that sometimes I get bored, you know?
Curve: nose emoji beer emoji geyser emoji
Panties: You just snorted beer out of your nose? Good. I hope the Holy Gail was there to see it and now understands that you are a mere mortal and borderline gross like the rest of the boys on campus.
Curve: Gail has a lifeguard certification test tomorrow. She’s home studying and resting up, but she has texted me several times.
I’m not one to sext and tell, Red, but I think how “gross” I am is the last thing on her mind…
Panties: So I’ve heard. So how did you do it?
Every guy at this school has tried to hook up with Gail Goodnight, but for three years she’s turned every one of them down. The Holy Gail, like her namesake the Holy Grail, is unattainable and mysterious and probably the secret to eternal life and happiness. But we all assumed no one would ever know for sure because of the unattainable part.
Now you’ve gone and proved everyone wrong.
How? I have to know.
What’s your secret trick?
Curve: There has to be a trick? The fact that I’m a nice guy with a decent sense of humor who’s easy on the eyes isn’t enough?
Panties: Sorry, but no, it isn’t. Better men than you, Curve, have stormed the Goodnight Castle only to be dismembered by its portcullis.
Curve: drooling emoji Me no talk big words so good.
Panties: Lol. You do, too.
You’re just not up on your medieval battle armaments.
A portcullis was a rapid response defense mechanism in medieval castles— incredibly heavy doors with iron spikes on the bottom. So when they dropped on invading enemies they tended to gore people to death.
Limbs were lost. Tears were shed. Dreams were dashed.
Much like the situation with the beautiful, boobilicious Gail and the horny and heartbroken boys of Penn U.
Curve: You’re not right, Panties.
There is something seriously messed up in that squirrely brain of yours.
Panties: Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, just say so.
But as someone who has a thing for an Unattainable, I could use some practical advice, and you’re probably the only person who can tell me what I’m doing wrong.
Curve: Aw! Panties has a crush! That’s so cute.
Panties: Shut up! I am not cute.
Curve: Precious little Panties is in lurrrvve! So who is he?
A fellow super-secret soldier spy?
A former Navy SEAL studying nuclear physics on the GI Bill?
The scary guy with the shaved head who runs the ROTC?
Panties: Ew. No. He walks like he has a pole up his ass.
Unattainable doesn’t go to school here. We met our senior year of boarding school, before he was accepted to West Point. I’ve been angling for some one-on-one time ever since, but he never bites. And aside from him, I’ve never had trouble landing at least a first date with someone I’m interested in.
I know I’m not the hottest thing going, but I make up for that with entertainment value, and it usually takes people at least one date to realize they have no interest in my particular kind of crazy.
Curve: You are highly entertaining.
So what’s wrong with this guy? Why is he too stupid to be into you?
And since he’s obviously stupid, are you sure you want to bother with his dumb ass?
Panties: I do. There’s just something about him…
But I’ve tried all my usual methods—insulting him, ignoring him, sitting on his lap when he least expects it, teasing him until he laughs so hard he pukes—but nothing is working.
He’s an uncrackable nut, the Archie of the Covenant to your Holy Gail.
Curve: But his name’s not Archie?
Panties: God, no. That would be a deal breaker right there.
Curve: Okay, so…
Thoug
h I agree that insulting people and ignoring them are usually excellent ways to show them you’re interested in a meaningful connection, I’m going to suggest a slightly different tack.
Panties: drooling emoji Thanks. Me no flirt so good.
Curve: No, you do. But you only flirt one way. You have the Red method down pat, but people have different needs, different proclivities, different buttons that they need to have pushed to start thinking of a friend as something more.
Panties: Proclivities. Nice.
Are you showing off because you didn’t know what a portcullis is?
Curve: Do you want an answer or not? Because I do have a game to watch and more beer to drink, and I was thinking seriously about whipping up some vegetarian nachos.
Panties: Sorry, sorry. I want an answer, but I’m confused…
So you’re saying I need to change my entire flirting style to please this guy? Isn’t that counter-intuitive? I mean, I want him to like ME, not someone I’m pretending to be.
Curve: You’re not going to pretend to be someone else.
You’re going to be Red, just Red focused on meeting the needs of her partner, instead of impressing him with her knowledge of medieval battle armaments or fucking with his head by running hot and cold with the insults and lap sitting.
Panties: Ouch.
Okay, first up I was kidding about my flirting style. And secondly, I am all about meeting people’s needs. Hell, I usually know what the person I’m with wants before they do—a side effect of being raised by a father who chewed my ass for fucking up first and explained how to avoid fucking up never.
I know how not to fuck things up, Curve.
And as far as I can tell, I’m giving Mr. Unattainable exactly what he needs.
Curve: Which is?
Panties: Someone who refuses to take his shit or pander to him because he’s beautiful. Someone who praises him when he’s the most wonderful version of himself—which is pretty wonderful—and refuses to let him off the hook when he’s phoning it in.
Someone who makes him laugh, which he needs. I can tell he has some sad stuff in his past, even though he never talks about it.
