“Uh, if this is a bad time…” Brent’s gaze darts to my brother’s imposing form. Seeing them stand next to each other is almost comical, and it only emphasizes Brent’s wiry physique. And average height…for a guy, anyway, meaning I’m going to tower over him in these heels. Great.
“No, no! It’s fine,” I say as I grab my purse and head back to the door, shooing them both out and shutting it behind me.
Tanner is still glaring daggers into Brent’s forehead. Brent is trying hard to look everywhere but at the cleavage I’m sporting, but he doesn’t quite manage, which only makes Tanner glare harder. As if everything wasn’t already horribly awkward, the front door to the building opens and Adam chooses that moment to come down the stairs. He’s got a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and his arms are full of papers. His hair is standing up all over the place, as if he’s run frustrated fingers through it all day, and his eyes are bloodshot. Combine all that with way-longer-than-a-five-o’clock-shadow stubble he’s rocking, and one would think he just came from a four-day bender. But that’s ridiculous, because this is Adam.
Responsible, mature, sensible Adam.
Except he wasn’t so responsible or mature or sensible when he fingered me against the wall in a freakin’ restaurant bathroom.
A wave of heat rushes over me, and great. The memory of Adam doing that creeps in, and I absolutely don’t need to be thinking about that now. Not when I’m standing in front of my date for the evening and my brother, who’s taking in everything with a shrewd eye. Damn cop genes.
Adam halts in his tracks when he gets to the landing and notices us all standing there, his eyes connecting with mine almost immediately, like he can sense me. He takes in Tanner, then Brent, then his gaze darts back to mine again. I’ve spent almost a week avoiding him since the restaurant, and the first time he sees me is with two guys coming out of my apartment. I wait for him to blow up. To freak out about the guy I’m going out with and the guy Adam doesn’t know is my brother. But instead of raising his voice, instead of saying anything, he simply lifts an eyebrow as he stares at me. “Hey, Paige.”
“Uh, hi! We were just leaving! See ya!” God, who the fuck’s voice is that, all high-pitched and chipper, and can someone shoot her already?
And now it’s not just Adam’s eyebrows that are mocking me, but those damn lips, too. How they’re curved up on the side, on a one-way trip to Smirky, Smugsville, population one.
I finally get my overbearing oaf of a brother to move ahead of me, and Brent follows behind me like a puppy dog—or, more aptly, like a horny college guy who’s hoping for a peek up my skirt if he lags far enough behind as I climb the steps.
My brother keeps looking over his shoulder at Adam who’s standing outside his apartment, watching all this as he unlocks his front door. Tanner narrows his eyes at me, and I can practically see the wheels spinning in his mind. And then he smiles. “Can’t wait for tomorrow.”
Yeah, me neither.
i honestly can’t remember ever being on a more painful date. And that’s saying something, because I have been on a lot of dates. But this guy…this guy, man.
“Wait, wait…I can do the rest.” Brent takes another huge gulp of his beer, while I try to drown my sorrows in yet another cosmo. It’s not helping. No amount of vodka will help ease this insufferable evening.
Brent proceeds to burp the remainder of the alphabet. He doesn’t stop when our waitress comes up to the table. Instead, he offers a smile and belches T, U, and V in her face. Understandably, she turns on her heel and leaves us, but not before shooting a commiserating look at me.
Ugh, why am I here?
Except I know exactly why I’m here. His name starts with Fuckhot and ends with Adam, and when you put them together, I’m screwed. He’s been on my mind since The Bathroom Incident, and I attempted to do what I do best under those circumstances—get lost in another guy. When Brent approached me at the coffee shop on campus and asked me out, I agreed immediately. No, I don’t know him that well. He’s the friend of a friend, so I’ve seen him around before, but only ever in passing. I’ve never spent one-on-one time with him, otherwise I’m certain he would’ve regaled me with his burping talent before tonight.
After he gets out an excruciatingly long Z, he grins at me. “Huh? Huh? Pretty awesome, right? Tell me you’ve met someone who can do that.”
“Well, you got me there, Brent.” I tip back my head to swallow the rest of my cosmo, desperate for another, but I’m refraining because I want to get the hell out of here.
The waitress comes back and places the check on the table, shooting another sympathetic glance in my direction. Thank God. Now that we have the check, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Brent reaches for the leather folder and cringes when he sees the total. “So, uh, how do you want to do this?”
“Do what?”
He lifts the bill folder and glances pointedly at it. “This. You just want to go halfsies, or…?”
I can only stare at him for a moment, because he can’t be serious. He asked me out on this date. He selected the restaurant—one I wouldn’t ever go to if I had my choice. He ordered not one but two appetizers for himself—he actually slapped my hand away when I reached for a bite—then proceeded to order the steak and lobster. The steak and lobster! He’s a fucking college student, not Prince William. But, yeah, sure, let me get half of that for you, asshole.
“You know how this whole dating thing works, right?” I ask. “Where the person who asks the other out on the date is generally the one who pays…”
He looks taken aback for a minute, like he didn’t expect me to actually call him on it, but fuck that. I’m not known for my tact. Shifting in his seat, he says, “I…I only brought twenty bucks with me.”
I snort. “What are you, twelve?” I grab the bill from his hands and check the total, grinding my teeth at how much this shitty, horrible, awful night is costing me, and it’s a hell of a lot more than matching the twenty bucks this asshat is tossing in. Sitting on my couch and hiding from Adam would have been preferable to this bullshit, and a hell of a lot cheaper. I grab my purse, pull out some cash, and slap it in the bill folder before I stand.
“As delightful as this evening has been, I think I’m about ready to go home.”
He stands from his seat and offers a frown. “Oh, I thought we could go get dessert somewhere…”
The laugh that rips free from my mouth is not even a little appropriate for the quiet dining establishment we’re in, nor for the level of fun this night has been, but I can’t stop it. “And how did you plan to pay for that? Gonna dig for coins on the floor of your car?”
I don’t wait for an answer before I turn on my too-high heels and walk toward the door of the restaurant. This dress and these shoes and all that time getting ready were totally wasted on this douchebag of epic proportions.
I seethe the entire way home, wishing this fifteen-minute ride could be over in five. When we finally pull up in front of my apartment building, I’m so happy to see it I nearly dive out to kiss the sidewalk.
Douchebag’s hand hovers over the keys in the ignition, his head turned toward me. “So, you want to fuck, or what?”
His expression is eager, and that only makes me want to punch him all the more, so I don’t even attempt to sugarcoat things. “Let me get this straight. You invited me out for dinner and didn’t ask where I’d like to go. You took me to a restaurant with shitty-but-expensive food, burped for a solid twenty minutes at the table, slapped my hand when I tried to eat some of the food you ordered—which, by the way, you made me pay way more than half for—and now you’re asking if you’re going to get laid. Have I got that about right?”
He doesn’t say anything, his face burning with color, and I laugh as I reach for the door handle. “Uh, no. No, I absolutely do not want to fuck.” After stepping out of the car, I lean into the open door. “And do me a favor: lose my number.” I slam the door and watch as he speeds away,
peeling out in his tricked-out Neon.
Tricked. Out. Neon.
That should’ve been clue fucking one.
“Freakin’ wanker,” I mutter, rubbing my fingers against my forehead.
I take a deep breath and reach down to slip off my heels, sighing when I remove the deathtraps from my feet. They’re sexy, but holy hell do they hurt. Hooking them on my fingers, I turn and head up the walkway to the apartment building. With each step I take, I imagine different ways I could’ve told off Brent—like by dumping my water in his lap and telling everyone in the restaurant he has an incontinence problem.
“Bad night?” The voice I’ve tried my hardest to dodge, to not think about, stops me in my tracks when I’m nearly to the front stoop, making the entire night of avoidance a lost cause.
NINE
adam
It’s been a long goddamn day. A long goddamn week, if I’m honest. I’ve been at the shop from 7 a.m. to well after dinner every day. When I was in high school, I used to love working there. I think I would now, too, if I were doing anything but pushing paper in the back office and trying to figure out a way to dig my parents out of this hole they got themselves in. The funny thing is, what I’m doing now isn’t that much different from what I do back at home. My job consists of me sitting in an office for eight hours, crunching numbers. Odd how I feel satisfied with it in Denver, but it makes me itchy here, like I need to be doing more.
On the plus side, my parents have never really treated me as a child—sandwiches prepped and clothes ironed notwithstanding. They see me as an equal in the business with valuable ideas, so they’re doing everything I suggest without complaint or argument. New website? Yes. Guided tours? All over it. Offering rentals? They’ve already taken the merchandise out of inventory to prepare it for when the website is complete, showcasing all the new stuff we’re doing and offering sign-ups for those tours and rentals.
After this week, I think I’ll actually be able to dive in and help with all that stuff. I’ve almost reached the bottom of the never-ending paper pile my parents left for me. I’ve spent hours crunching numbers, figuring out what kind of income we need to have coming in to get us well into the black again. I’ve brought all that work home, poring over it until midnight most nights, before I crash for a few hours and start the cycle all over again.
The one interruption to my routine I didn’t anticipate today was seeing Paige. I moved in almost a week ago, and I haven’t gotten even a glimpse of her. And the one time I do run into her, she’s coming out of her apartment with not one but two guys. Awesome.
I’ve wanted to see her, wanted to go over and knock on her door, see if she’d actually ignore me, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about this whole Paige situation, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to be patient. For all her bluster and bravado, Paige is a chicken—at least when it comes to relationships. And as much as I loved fucking her, I can’t have just that. I can’t. My body isn’t wired that way, and neither is my mind. But no matter what we do, we’d both be bending a little. I’ll only be here for a few months. Much shorter than any relationship I’ve ever had, but if the info Cade and Jason have slipped me is accurate, it’s longer than anything Paige has done by, oh, two-point-seven-five months. I figure it’s a good compromise. I just have to get her to actually see that before I rub my dick raw from all the wanking I’ve been doing.
Not able to stare at the spreadsheet I’ve been working on any longer, I set my laptop on the couch cushion next to me, then make my way to the fridge. I need a beer or four, and I need to get out of this tiny closet of an apartment.
I grab a bottle from the fridge, then think twice and reach for a back up before I make my way out of my apartment and up the steps to the front stoop. It’s a perfect summer night, the air warm but not scorching, the light breeze making it even more tolerable. I’m just lifting the bottle to my lips when a bright blue Neon with what Cade, Jase, and I refer to as douche-wheels—the kind where the rims eat up all but a tiny circumference of tire—rolls to a stop at the curb. That car is so low to the ground, it would bottom out if it went over a pothole. And are those…florescent blue lights coming from underneath the car?
Shaking my head, I take a long drink just as the passenger door opens and a girl steps out. As I take a closer look, I realize it’s not just any girl, but the girl. The one who’s been a constant presence in my dreams for half a year. The dress she’s wearing would be indecent if it wasn’t so fucking hot. It’s red and short and skin-tight and bunches up so it ruffles over her stomach, and I don’t need her to turn around to be reminded of exactly what the front looks like. The neckline plunged so low, there’s absolutely no way she could possibly be wearing a bra, and I grind my teeth again at the thought of her going out with that guy—those guys? I don’t even fucking know. All I know is I spent the night with my head buried in spreadsheets just to stop the images from filling my mind. Images of her out with another dude. While patience is one of my better qualities, it seems as if sharing isn’t. I could wait for her for months. Waiting for her while watching her go out with other guys? Not so easy.
Paige stands from leaning into the car and slams the door, then flips the bird at the retreating car, muttering something too low for me to catch. She sighs so heavily, I can actually see her shoulders sag, then she reaches down and takes off her shoes before hooking them on her fingers and walking my way. Her head is down, her blond hair falling in loose waves over one of her shoulders while she focuses on the ground in front of her. This is the most unguarded I’ve ever seen her. Paige doesn’t put up a front, I don’t think. She is who she is one hundred percent of the time, but there is something there usually…an armor, maybe, that she feels she needs to have. Especially around me.
“Bad night?”
She jerks to a stop a foot from where I’m sitting, her eyes doing a slow sweep from my feet all the way to my hair that no doubt looks like I’ve slept on it. As her gaze travels over every inch of me, lingering on my chest, I almost wish I was wearing something other than my beat up Pumas, threadbare jeans, and T-shirt so worn it’s developed tiny holes at the seams. But then her eyes snap up to mine, and there’s no denying the heat there.
Patience.
She’s been avoiding me for days…weeks, if I’m going to get technical. Ever since she found out I was home. But now she’s here, with no way to escape without looking ridiculous, taking me in like she wants to eat me.
She tilts her head to the side as she stares at me. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
I raise an eyebrow at her blunt observation. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
Tilting her head down, she concedes. “I guess that’s true. And to answer your question, yeah, you could say that.”
“Your dates not do it for you?”
“Date, singular, and no.” Her lips purse while she studies me. “The other guy, the tall one with all the muscles and the angry glower? That’s my brother. One of them, anyway.”
Well, that’s marginally better than I thought, but that still means she went out with one of the guys. Grabbing the extra beer I brought out, I lift it toward her. “You want?”
She captures the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth, and my fingers tighten on the necks of both bottles just to stop myself from reaching up and tugging it free. Then tugging her into my lap so I can capture it between my teeth. But then she releases her lip, exhaling deeply, and gives me a quick nod before taking a seat next to me on the stoop. Twisting off the cap, I hand her the bottle before taking a deep pull from mine.
Resting my forearms on my knees, I glance over at her. “So what made the night so bad? You don’t like Neons?”
Laughter bursts from her and bubbles around us, the sound matching her personality exactly. It’s not dainty or sweet. It’s carefree and loud and absolutely infectious, and I find myself smiling along.
“God, I needed that laugh tonight.” She grins at me, and I
think it might be the first time I’ve ever seen it. I’ve seen her face right after she comes, watched her bite her lip as she chases an orgasm, looked into her eyes when I sank deep inside her, but I’ve never been on the receiving end of one of her carefree smiles.
I want it again.
“You really only have yourself to blame,” I say. “When you saw his car, did you not know he was going to be a douchebag?”
“I was withholding judgment.” She sighs. “Of course, when we got to the restaurant and he burped the entire alphabet after finishing his lobster and steak—which, by the way, he made me pay half for—withholding judgment was thrown out the window. My judgey pants were on and securely fastened.”
The off-hand comment brings my attention to her lower half, and I once again take in the tiny dress—definitely not pants, judgey or otherwise—that should be illegal. The hem of it comes to mid-thigh, and that’s being generous, especially with her sitting down. My eyes continue past the hem and move lower without my permission, tracing the lines of her bare legs, long and sleek and muscular…like she spends time doing shit instead of just looking pretty. The sight of them makes my mouth go dry. I know what it feels like to have those legs wrapped around my hips. To have those thighs pressing against my ears while my tongue is buried inside her.
Christ.
I need to get my shit together. Patience is going to go out the window if I can’t stop thinking about tonguing her pussy. Clearing my throat, I focus again on what she said, and I can’t help but chuckle. “What kind of DB makes his date pay?”
“I know, right?” She slaps my arm and nods emphatically, her eyes wide. “And yeah, laugh it up. It was hilarious when he burped in our waitress’s face. And also when he dropped me off and asked me ever so eloquently if I ‘wanted to fuck, or what.’”
Paige in Progress (Reluctant Hearts #3) Page 6
