They passed without seeing me. Thank you, Jesus.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, realizing I was smashed up against what felt like a brick wall. I tried to pull away and almost went down. The fact that my knees had turned to jelly might have had something to do with it . . . As I struggled for balance, I grabbed on to a perfectly muscled arm. “I am so sorry,” I stammered, which may have come out slightly muffled because the arm gently pulled me back to the chest. The best-smelling, most beautiful chest ever. I was so tempted to bite it . . . or lick it. What the fu . . . ? What was wrong with me? Was I so horny that I would jump a forbidden cop in the public library because he smelled good and had an awesome man-butt? Yes, unfortunately the answer was yes.
“Kristy?” Mitch asked, putting a warm, slightly calloused finger under my chin and lifting my face to his. “Can I ask you something?”
“That’s a bad idea,” I muttered, trying unsuccessfully to move out of his arms.
“Why’s that?” he asked in a voice that made me weak.
“Because I have no idea what’s going to come out of my mouth,” I told him truthfully. He was in grave danger of my grabby hands. I balled them into fists, willing them not to touch his insanely kissable lips or slap his man-butt.
“How about I talk and you just nod your head?”
I nodded my head in agreement and giggled.
“Good,” he grinned. “I want to take you out for ice cream and I . . .”
I started to shake my head to tell him no, but he cut me off.
“No nodding or shaking till I finish,” he informed me, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I promise to do all the talking until you feel less flustered. Although, it would be fascinating to hear about your band,” he chuckled.
I rolled my eyes and tried to shove him away, but he was going nowhere fast. I was amazed I didn’t feel trapped or freaked out. This big, beautiful man who reduced me to a blubbering idiot actually made me feel safe . . .
“Mitch, I can’t,” I whispered, so close to his mouth I could almost touch it with my own.
“Why?”
“Um, because of lesbians and Brett Favre,” I mumbled, sure he’d drop me and run like hell.
“I’m not going to touch that one,” he said.
“That’s a good idea,” I said, trying to pry myself away.
“So you won’t come out with me for ice cream.” He gave me a pouty lip with a twinkle in his eyes.
Damn it, I wanted to suck on that lip . . . “No, I can’t.”
“Well then, I do believe the price for denial is a kiss,” he said in a husky voice, staring at my mouth.
Oh. My. God.
Was he serious or joking? If the expression on his face was anything to go by, he was very serious. The butterflies in my tummy were break-dancing with more gusto than Kim Jensen Johnson had exuded twenty minutes ago. My mouth felt dry and I knew if he let me go I’d be in a puddle at his feet. Would kissing him mean I’d lose the bet? No . . . I wasn’t going out with him or having sex with him . . . although I certainly wouldn’t mind that. Hells bells, he was a cop. I would not date or sleep with or dry hump a cop. Ever. No matter how freakin’ outstanding his man-butt was, not to mention his impressive package, which was kind of hard to miss—being smacked up against it.
Who was ever going to know if I kissed him?
“You can’t tell Jack,” I said, eyeing him narrowly.
“Do I look like a guy who kisses and tells?” he asked, pulling on my curls. “God, I want to sink my hands into your hair.”
“Really?” I whispered.
“Really, really. So, pretty girl, what will it be? Do we spend the night locked together in the library or do you give me a kiss?”
“One kiss,” I blurted. “No tongue.”
I closed my eyes and waited . . . and waited. What the hell was he doing? Where was my kiss? I opened my eyes to find the object of my desire and possibly the instrument of my having to eat with unpleasant lesbians and lose Cardboard Brett Favre a mere breath away from my lips. His eyes bored into mine and his sexy smile made the blood roar in my ears. Damn, he hadn’t even kissed me yet and I was ready to have a Richter scale–shattering orgasm.
“Keep your eyes open, Kristy,” he said as he erased the distance between us.
As he leaned in, my fingers tangled in his hair and I pulled his lips to mine. All coherent thought left me when he teased my lips with the tip of his tongue. I vaguely remembered telling him no tongue, but that was stupid. I loved his tongue. I’m fairly sure I loved his tongue as much as I loved his man-butt. He slanted his mouth across mine and gave me the most toe-curling kiss I’d ever had . . . without tongue. Dang it, that just wouldn’t do . . .
I parted his very willing lips with my tongue and laid one on him that almost made me pass out. The sounds he made sent heat coursing through my body and straight to my panties. If kissing him was this good, sex with him would probably kill me.
“Oh my God,” he said against my mouth. His hands were in my hair and he ran his lips along my jawline and down to my neck. “I have to stop,” he groaned, “or I won’t be able to.”
“Excuse me,” a pissed-off bespectacled librarian hissed, throwing a metaphorical bucket of icy cold water over us. “The library is closing. I would suggest that you two get a room . . . at a hotel.”
She pivoted on her heel and stomped off, muttering something about teenagers in heat. She got the age wrong, but the rest was fairly accurate.
“I’m sorry,” I said, backing away from the hottest lip smack I’d ever participated in.
“I’m not.” He grinned, watching me like he was going to pounce.
“Well, um, it was lovely seeing you again,” I said, trying not to giggle. “Have a nice life and enjoy your books.”
I walked away. I knew he was watching my butt. I could feel it . . . and I liked it. Wait a minute . . . I turned back to him and much to my delight, caught him staring.
“Mitch, did you know I’d be here tonight?” I asked, wondering if it was coincidence or providence.
“Possibly.” He grinned and shrugged his broad shoulders.
I stared at him for a moment and decided I liked his answer. I knew I would avoid him at all costs from now on, but it was flattering to find out he was stalking me. I turned and left, knowing full well his eyes were back on my butt. Why not let him enjoy the view? God knows, I’d certainly enjoyed his.
“So how was the Bigfoot meeting?” Rena asked gleefully.
“It was informative,” I groaned, flopping down on her bed. “Your aunt is now going by the handle Moon-Unit and apparently Sasquatch is an immortal shapeshifter living among us.”
“Holy shit,” she laughed. “I knew about the name change thing. Mom is fit to be tied. She refuses to address Phyllis as Moon-Unit, so Phyllis won’t answer her when she speaks.”
“Sunday family brunch must be awesome,” I deadpanned, grabbing her pillow and trying to wipe Mitch from my brain.
“Hell yes . . . So, little missy, I heard you met Jack’s supersexy partner earlier,” she teased, raising her eyebrows.
Crap, had she been hiding at the library? Did she know I’d kissed him? “What are you talking about?” I croaked, fully ready to take my punishment.
“Well,” Rena gushed, “I hear sparks flew and then you informed him you had eight husbands and played in a classical-country-techno-pop band.”
“I never said how many husbands and it was a folk-rock-thrash-punk band. Jack clearly has a memory problem or brain damage.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I realized she knew nothing about the library.
“Did you think Mitch was hot?” she asked, gathering up the dirty laundry that covered her floor.
“He’s okay,” I said, tossing her a bra and sweats that I found under her pillow.
“Hmm, he certainly had a higher opinion of you than you do of him.” She gave me the look . . . and waited.
“What?” I yelled.
Rena cackled
and continued to clean her room. “He said you were hot, crazy hot.”
“Crazy being the operative word,” I moaned, putting her pillow over my head.
“Nah,” she assured me. “He told Jack he couldn’t say much because everything about you took his breath away.”
“He didn’t say that,” I gasped, sitting up on her bed and throwing the pillow at her.
“Did.”
“Not.”
“I swear he did.” She lobbed her pillow back at me. “Jack said so.”
“Yeah, Jack also said I had eight husbands and a country-techno band.” I rolled my eyes and flopped back on her bed. My tummy was tingling and it was all I could do to keep my voice normal. There was no way I could let on how I felt. If I did, Rena might drop the bet so I could be happy. And the bet was the main thing holding me back. My fear and disdain of dating cops seemed to disappear every time I laid eyes on Mitch. Sad thing was, Nathan/Ethan wasn’t my first law enforcement romance failure . . . There was David, the beat cop who was more into his own reflection than me, and Tommy, the dispatcher, who was such a momma’s boy all our dates were threesomes (and not the kind you read about in erotic romance novels). How many times did I have to date a cop before I learned my lesson? The bet was still on and it was going to stay that way.
“Jack didn’t say eight husbands or country whatever-the-fuck band,” she grinned. “I did, just to screw with you. The Mitch stuff is true.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I quipped casually. “I’m not interested. I don’t date cops anymore. I don’t want to dine with Mrs. C and Edith. Ever. And I’m looking forward to owning cardboard Brett Favre.”
Rena considered me for a long moment. “Okay,” she said cryptically. “Have it your way.”
“I will,” I shot back.
She scooped up the laundry basket and started out of her bedroom. “You know, Kristy, it’s really going to be fun hearing about all the wonderful meals you’ll be sharing with Edith and Mrs. C.”
She was out of the room before I could nail her with anything. I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Motherhumpin’ assclowns, the psycho part of me hoped she was right.
Chapter 7
“It’s going to be fine, and the damage wasn’t too bad,” Louise said, emerging from under a pile of donated clothes. “Hell, Mariah causes more destruction than this on her own—even without teenage hooligans ransacking the place.”
“I know,” I agreed. “I’m just glad she’s okay, and I’m glad there were no weapons.”
“Her knee and her fists seem to be fairly lethal,” Louise chuckled.
“I wasn’t talking about Mariah.”
“I know,” she sighed. “This just stinks. We lost the lobby computer, a couple of tables and chairs. Oh, and Mariah destroyed the TV two weeks ago.”
I blew out a long breath and looked around. “I’d have her come in and work the TV off if I didn’t think she’d demolish the entire shelter in the process.”
Louise laughed and began sorting clothes. Sitting down next to her, I started making lists. Lists made me feel sane, not that I followed them. But in the tsunami that was my life, I was grasping at anything.
“I suppose I could call around and see if anyone would donate a computer and television,” I said wearily. “I’ll bring my old laptop over and set it up so we can still help these gals learn to use the Internet. I got it last year, so of course, it’s almost obsolete.” I rolled my eyes.
“You’re supposed to be on vacation,” Louise chided. “You should be going out on romantic dates with Ethan.”
“Nathan.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Ethan’s name is Nathan,” I said, leveling her with a look.
“Back up,” she groaned, “that jack-off gave you the wrong name?”
“Nope. Apparently he was too polite to correct my faux pas.”
“Creepy.” She shuddered and stopped folding. “Are you still . . .”
“Nope.” I cut her off. “Turns out Ethan/Nathan was married, also dating the mayor’s wife, and a devoted Dallas Cowboys fan. Jack knocked his lights out and dumped him for me.”
Louise was speechless.
“Oh, and I never poked him,” I added before she asked.
“Well, thank baby Moses in a basket for that,” she said, shaking her head in shock. “I think you need to pick another profession for your dating pool.”
Mitch flitted through my mind and I firmly grabbed his shapely man-butt and shoved him to the very, very back. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “I never liked that guy. He was so damn polite and well . . . creepy.”
“Why didn’t you say anything when I was dating him?” I demanded.
Louise burst out laughing and shook her head. “Creepy is a kill-the-messenger word. I don’t get into your private business, young lady.”
“Well, next time I would greatly appreciate it if you would,” I huffed, trying not to grin. “If I show up with someone creepy, psychotic, or, god forbid, polite, I want you to smack some sense into me. Deal?”
“Deal. Just don’t show up here with another cop. Now get your bad self out of here. I have about ten volunteers coming in to get this place all spick-and-span. You are officially on vacation . . . starting now. Go.”
“I’m gone,” I said, ducking to avoid the wad of clothes she tossed at me. “Hey, Louise . . .”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
Today was the day of “I don’t want to do it, but I have to.” As I pulled up to A Stitch in Time, I thought about what Louise had said. She was right. No. More. Cops. Mitch was trouble. He was another in a long line of stupidly hot cops who were going to either break my heart or destroy every bit of self-confidence I owned . . . and I needed my confidence. I had to deal with the vicious sisters.
I laid my head on the steering wheel and blew out a frustrated breath. Suck it up, baby. Grandma had left me a beautiful building with three thriving businesses inside. The responsibility was overwhelming, but clearly Grandma thought I could do it . . . and I could. I would deal with Mrs. C and Edith. I would make sure the icky accountants and the wonderful Steves were happy renting from me. My God, I didn’t have any real problems. I had a great life, great friends, a business that made a difference . . . and shitty taste in men. That, too, I could change—and I would. I pasted a smile on my face, got out of my car, and was greeted with hysterical squawking. Crapitty-crapcrap . . .
“Thank the gay Lord above,” Short Fat Steve yelled, running out of the salon and straight at me. “It’s just awful,” he shrieked. “My Steve is going to get his pepper spray and blind them. If he does that, he’ll go to jail and we’re going to the Bahamas tomorrow. I’ve never been to the Bahamas! Do you hear me, Kristy? Never. Been. To. The. Bahamas. I will not let those swamp-ass lesbians send my man to jail. I’m all pasty and I need to get some Caribbean sun. I mean, my God, they’re crying.”
He dropped to the ground in front of me and buried his face in my stomach. I was so confused, I was dizzy. “Mrs. C. and Edith are crying?” I tried to peel Short Fat Steve off me, but he was clamped on tight. Although, I must admit, an evil joy flitted through my mind as I pictured Big Tall Steve shooting pepper spray into the old hags’ eyes. I definitely had a suite in hell waiting for me when I died.
“No, they’re not crying,” he said into my tummy, tickling me. “They made the big burly construction guys cry.”
“What big burly . . .” I turned my head and saw them . . . three huge men, standing in front of A Stitch in Time, sobbing. Holding each other and sobbing. WTF? “What did they do?”
“It was just awful, like Taylor Swift singing live. Awful,” he whimpered, detaching himself from my body and pacing the sidewalk in front of me. I sucked my lower lip into my mouth to keep from giggling. When Short Fat Steve got going, he looked like a tattooed, pierced Weeble. “The poor guy had
a wandering eye and they just kept screaming ‘look at me’ . . . over and over.”
“Wait . . . what? They were hitting on Mrs. C and Edith?” I had entered an alternate universe and I wanted out. Why in the hell would big hunky construction guys hit on those two?
“Oh God, no,” he gasped, wringing his hands. “The poor guy’s eyeball doesn’t shoot straight, and instead of ignoring it, like any polite human being would do, those rug munchers made him cry.”
“Holy hell,” I muttered, grabbing Short Steve by the shoulders so he would quit moving. His flair for the dramatic was killing me. “Why were construction workers in a knitting shop?”
“Kristy,” Steve hissed, “that’s sexist. There is no reason big boys can’t knit.”
“Or cry,” I mumbled because I couldn’t help myself.
“This is not the time for random pop-culture references to obscure songs.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” I said, glancing over at the blubbering men. “So they’re . . . um, customers?”
“No, they’re not customers,” he shouted. “They’re construction guys.”
“Now who’s being sexist?” I asked, raising my eyebrow.
“I am not sexist,” he informed me. “I’m gay. Homosexual people cannot be sexist. Sexy? Yes. Sexist? No.”
“I’m not going to touch that, but I’d like to point out that you got the word sex into that sentence five times.”
“Well, color me impressed with myself,” he giggled.
“Oookay, they’re not customers. They didn’t hit on the lesbians, yet they’re sobbing on the sidewalk in front of my store . . . What gives?”
“They start work tomorrow and they were checking out the premises,” he said, smoothing out my shirt, which he had wrinkled when he was buried in it.
“Work on what?”
“Ohh, snookie bottom, you probably don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said as his own eyes filled with tears. I knew this had something to do with my grandma. Every time either Steve brought her up, they cried.
Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters) Page 5
