The One I'm With (A Sweet Somethings Novel Book 3)

by J. Lynn Rowan

“It was the same question!”

  “Sorry, Red.” His grin turns mischievous. “Now you have to take a dare.”

  Huffing a breath, I fold my arms. “Like what?”

  “You have to . . .” Josh glances around, then picks up the empty champagne bottle. “Balance this on your chin and make one complete lap around the room without letting it drop.”

  “Fine.”

  “Walking backward.”

  With a glare, I grab the bottle and stand up, then tip my head back and carefully place the bottle on the flat of my chin. After making sure I have it balanced, I start a slow, easy backward circle around the room. I have to stop twice, but manage to make it back to the couch without dropping the bottle. My grin of triumph earns a round of applause from Josh as I plop back into my seat.

  “Truth or dare?” he says.

  “I just did a dare!”

  “As punishment for breaking the rules.”

  Shaking my head, I reach out to set the bottle back on the table. In the process, I upset the stack of magazines and books. Josh lunges for them as they slide off the edge, but other than one paperback book, he can’t keep ahold of them. A snort of amusement escapes him as he studies the book cover. “What the hell is this?”

  Horrified embarrassment leaves me cold. The book in his hand is a romance novel, complete with a bare-chested hero and swooning heroine on the cover, that Ava lent me a couple weeks ago. While there’s certainly nothing wrong with reading romance novels, I’d rather not have Josh find them laying around my house. “That’s not mine.”

  He glances at me, then flips to the spot where I left off and plucks out the bookmark. “So you’re not reading it?”

  Unsure if I’m reacting to him finding the book at all or potentially losing my page, I launch forward, grasping for the paperback. “Come on, give it back.”

  “I thought it wasn’t yours.”

  Stretching, Josh holds the book just out of reach, and I kneel on the couch and lean further over him in an attempt to retrieve it. Laughter sputters from him, until I give one desperate flail and lose my balance. He drops the book and hooks his arm around my waist as I tumble toward the floor. Both of us roll off, landing between the couch and the coffee table, with me on my back beneath him. At the last second, Josh manages to put both knees and one hand down to break the fall and keep from squishing me.

  But his other arm is still securely around my waist, and I hold his shirt in a death grip.

  Every trace of laughter is gone from his face, replaced with tense longing. Flattening my hands on his chest, I feel the hammer of his heart.

  I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out as a hoarse whisper. “Truth or dare?”

  Half a minute goes by before he answers. The already dark blue of his eyes deepens in the shadows. “Dare.”

  “Kiss me.” There. Now he has no reason to put off the first move anymore. If he argues that I’m not one-hundred percent interested in locking lips, I’ll make the move myself.

  But he just gazes at me, slowly easing his hand from underneath me. “Marissa . . .”

  That’s the first time he’s used my name, instead of calling me Red. The way he says it, in a soft, almost shaky tone, makes it sound like he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

  A funny ache swells in my chest.

  “Josh, I know you said you’d go slow for my sake, but this is stupid slow. I want you to kiss me.” My voice isn’t all that steady either.

  But instead of complying, he pushes back onto his heels between the couch and coffee table. With a soul-deep sigh, he rests his forearms on the furniture to either side and stares at the floor.

  His hands slowly curl into fists, then release.

  Irritation mingles with embarrassment, and I sit up and scoot back until I’m clear of the furniture. A scathing remark about mixed messages boils to the tip of my tongue. But before I let loose, the lights come back on. Cringing with momentary blindness, I scramble to my feet and cross to the open windows.

  “The rain’s stopped,” I tell him.

  Behind me, Josh picks up the fallen magazines and sets them on the coffee table. Then I hear him gather the remnants of our snack. He says nothing as he carries everything out of the room. Folding my arms, I follow him as far as the doorway and watch him disappear into the kitchen. Cupboard doors thud. I assume he’s looking for the garbage and recycling bins. Next, the sound of running water filters down the hall.

  I rest my forehead against the archway, wishing I hadn’t said anything related to kissing. Everything had been going great between us. Keeping it casual, having fun. Ignoring the fact that we just about melted everything that stood between us that first night at the bar when we met. But now, I admit it to myself. It’s been bugging me that Josh not only hasn’t kissed me, but apparently won’t despite clearly wanting to.

  I know many women in my shoes who would tearfully wonder, Is it me?

  But given Josh’s reaction to my dare, to my blatant statement of desire, it might be him.

  The water turns off, then the man of the hour reappears in the kitchen doorway. Still Mr. Tall, Bronze, and Handsome. We stare at each other down the length of the hall, a growing level of mutual frustration pulsing in the air between us.

  I jump three feet and release a little shriek when the doorbell rings. Josh startles, too, but manages to keep his voice under control.

  The bell rings again. I clear my expression of any and all emotion and answer the door. The slightly damp, bearded man on the other side sports a jacket with a little embroidered tow truck on the left shoulder. The real thing idles in front of my house.

  “I got a call about a car in a ditch,” he begins. “Little blue sports car at the end of your driveway, miss?”

  “That’s mine,” Josh says, coming up behind me.

  The tow truck driver nods. “I’ll go get it hitched up. It’s not in too deep. Fifteen minutes and we should be good to go.”

  While the driver heads back down to his truck, Josh moves away from me and returns to the living room, grabbing his sneakers off the floor where he’d dropped them earlier. Rather than follow him yet again, I cross the front hall and lean against the stair banister. From here, I can see him sit in one of the accent chairs and put on his sneakers. He casts a lingering glance at the couch before he stands back up. Something like regret, or maybe wishful thinking, flickers in his expression. He avoids my gaze, and instead retrieves his keys and wallet from the entry table. Shoving them in his pockets, he steps toward the open door.

  My throat closes on a quiet gasp.

  Josh freezes, one hand on the doorknob.

  He turns.

  Our eyes meet.

  “Screw it,” he mutters to himself.

  Three strides, and he takes my face between his hands, stooping to claim my lips with his. Explosions ransack my brain, my blood, and the nerves in every part of my body. I forget to breathe, forget to think. My arms drop limp at my sides, and delight hums in the back of my throat.

  Way too soon, long before I can get used to the mixed sensations of flying, floating, and falling, Josh pulls away. He stumbles backward, weaving a little as if drunk.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says.

  Then he’s out the door.

  Now I do follow, going no farther than my front porch. The clouds have cleared, and the moon illuminates my yard enough to keep a trek to the road from becoming too hazardous. I watch as Josh meanders down my drive, glancing over his shoulder every so often as if he’s afraid my house will disappear with me inside it. I give a little wave, which he returns before the distance swallows him.

  Lips still stinging, I head back inside and lock the door.

  Then I remember that his wet clothes are in my dryer, and his cell pho
ne is on my charging station.

  Chapter 8

  Opening the Door

  Sleep is overrated.

  That’s what I tell myself when I roll out of bed the next morning, after having tossed and turned most of the night. My first coherent thought relates to coffee, since without it I’ll be useless today. My second thought revolves around when Josh might show to pick up his clothes and phone.

  Even if he chalks last night up to a disaster, he’s still going to need his cell.

  I make a pit stop in the laundry room to check the washing instructions on the shirt and pants sitting crumpled in my dryer. Neither requires dry-cleaning. Pretty sensible for a guy who could probably afford to have his underwear dry-cleaned.

  I should not be thinking about Josh’s underwear.

  Heat boils through the top of my head as I grab a towel, soak it at the laundry room sink, and throw it into the dryer with Josh’s work clothes. At the very least, I can return his stuff wrinkle-free. Then I stomp downstairs, angry with myself for fussing over him, and get a pot of coffee brewing.

  While the coffee maker percolates, I grab my cell off the charger, slip on the pair of yellow rubber boots sitting by the back door, and head out to my garden to check the state of the blooms. Heavy rain usually isn’t cause for concern, unless it’s accompanied by hail. But fussing with my flowers always calms me, and that’s exactly what I need right now.

  My garden covers the majority of the backyard. I hired a landscape architect to design the layout of the brick terrace, gravel paths, and assorted flora, organized to evoke a traditional English garden. The project cost more than renovating the kitchen, but it extends the living space and, more practically, eliminates the need for mowing. Most of the plants hang heavy with lingering water from the rain. Other than one sickly peony I’ve been babying all spring, everything looks to have survived the storm with buds intact. I decide to tackle some of the weeds while I make sense of last night’s events, and head to the potting shed to gather the tools for the job.

  Josh’s unexpected appearance at my door still rattles me. If he was worried, a phone call would have sufficed, and would have kept his car out of the ditch. But he hadn’t called. He’d driven all the way out here in treacherous weather to see for himself that I was okay during the storm.

  The last guy who cared that much about my welfare was Jared the Asshat, and everyone knows how that turned out.

  Maybe that’s what has me rattled. Jared Turner said he loved me, wanted to spend his life with me. But when a brighter, more exciting future beckoned, he couldn’t wait to bolt. Granted, Josh isn’t making any promises about marriage, or even a long-term commitment. And he’s savvy enough not to dish out claims of love this early on.

  But Josh exists in a different category than Jared ever dreamed of existing. The Mattingly family is wealthy, perhaps could be described as powerful in a financial sense. For his own part, Josh is dedicated to his work, but clearly values what time he’s able to give to his family. He comes across as a guy who believes in a work-life balance, even if he hasn’t quite achieved it yet.

  Down-to-earth and sensible doesn’t ring true. There’s another side to Josh’s story that I haven’t uncovered yet.

  To be fair, he hasn’t uncovered mine, either. Not that I think he’d run screaming if I shared all the details of my massive break-up and subsequent transformation into a methodical serial dater. But what I’ve done the past three years—dating rules, keeping all entanglements to five dates or less—is nothing compared to what I suspect haunts Josh’s romantic past. If I’m a serial dater, he’s a player. Plain and simple.

  Which still begs the question: why did it take more than a month and a stupid juvenile game of Truth or Dare for him to make a move? He wanted to kiss me when he dropped me off after our first date. I know it. But until he seemingly threw caution to the wind and set off a fireworks display in my brain last night, he’d been holding back.

  And that begs another question: why hold back at all? He has nothing to lose by pursuing me. Come mid-fall, his business in Asheville will be done, and he’ll be off to his next corporate merger, or whatever Mattingly Enterprises calls it. Even if he just wants a casual friends-with-benefits arrangement to help pass the time while he’s here, that’s no reason to go all uber-gentleman on me.

  I yank a stubborn stalk of Canada thistle out of my largest camellia bed and throw it into the nearby yard waste bin, which is now half-full from my efforts. Standing and brushing mulch and dirt from my gloves, I roll my head from one side to the other to stretch my back muscles.

  The weirdest thing about this whole situation is how much I’ve actually enjoyed being treated like a real person, with feelings and thoughts and ambitions, rather than a two-dimensional entity with whom to potentially have physical fun and nothing more. None of the guys I’ve dated between Jared’s exit and Josh’s entrance into my life have been interested in getting to know me, at least not beyond the odds of landing me in bed. Because of my rules, I’ve kept those odds low. They’ve protected me in more ways than one.

  But after three years, my life has grown a little lonely. My career fulfills me, my friends cheer me, and my family supports me. But I miss having someone special, someone who actually cares about me, to talk to at night, to make plans with.

  To eat an entire cheesecake with when the power goes out.

  My cell rings. Tearing off my gardening gloves, I jog to the back porch where I left it on the bistro table. The chances of it being Josh are slim, but it’s possible. A little jolt of disappointment hits me in the gut when I see my sister’s picture on the screen.

  “Hi, Beth.”

  “I . . .” She pauses. “You’re up?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “It’s eight-thirty on a Saturday morning. You’re never up this early on a Saturday, even if you have client meetings.”

  Sighing, I drop into one of the chairs. “We had a big storm last night. I wanted to give my garden a little TLC.”

  Beth doesn’t respond right away. Her silence is the kind that makes me wonder if she can hear my thoughts from seven hundred miles away. “I was going to just leave you a voicemail, but since I have you . . . What are you doing in about four weeks?”

  “I don’t have my calendar in front of me,” I say, stretching my legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “But I think I might have a client consult down in Charlotte. Why?”

  “Perfect. I have a conference in Atlanta that starts on July nineteenth, and thought I’d plan an overnight stop in Charlotte on the way down. We could meet for lunch. Can you swing it?”

  Of all the people in the world, Beth knows me better than anyone. Even though she irritates me sometimes when she goes all Big Sister, she has my best interest at heart. She was also the one who dropped everything—and I mean everything—to fly down for almost a month when Jared left me, and helped me pick up the pieces of my life.

  If there’s anyone I trust to help me work through whatever the hell I’m doing with Josh, my sister is Number One on my list.

  “Marissa?” Beth prompts.

  “I’m thinking.” A lot can happen in four weeks, but I don’t want to tell her anything about Josh until we’re face to face. “The nineteenth, you said?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Beth hums in confirmation. “So I’d fly into Charlotte late on the seventeenth, fly back out late on the eighteenth.”

  “It’s probably far enough out that I can reschedule with my client for the morning of the eighteenth. Plan to meet in Uptown somewhere around noon?”

  “I’ll plug it into my calendar.” Her smile translates in her tone.

  After promising to update each other once plans are solidified, we say goodbye. Then I set my phone back on the bistro table, close my eyes, and tip my head back.

  The sound of footste
ps crunching on gravel jerks me upright in my chair. Perched on the edge of the seat, I stare with a mix of disbelief and unadulterated joy as Josh appears from behind a climbing hydrangea at the edge of the terrace.

  “Morning, Red.” He smiles at me. “Love the wellies.”

  “How’s your car?” I ask after a moment.

  He shrugs. “No damage. The tow driver was good enough to give it the once-over after we got back into town. Hell of a layer of mud to clean off, so I found an automatic carwash that did the job. Three rounds and it’s near spotless.”

  “Don’t you have to work today?”

  “Probably.” His grin shines with a thousand watts of charm. “But I’m playing hooky.”

  Slowly, I stand. “I thought you might call. I mean, I know your phone is here . . .”

  Josh joins me on the porch. “I can’t kiss you over the phone.”

  “You don’t want to kiss me,” I stammer.

  “I thought we debunked that myth last night.”

  Blood rushes into my cheeks at the memory. “I wasn’t a sweaty, mulchy mess last night.”

  “No, but you tasted like cheesecake.”

  He moves close and wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me against him. Before I can protest, he dips his head and brushes his lips against mine. More of a tease than anything else. But it sends a shiver of delight across my skin, and I feel his smile when he notices it.

  I take a moment to compose myself when he lets me go. “I need to clean up out here and then go shower. Do you want some coffee?”

  “Let me take care of the gardening tools,” he says, twirling me and giving me a slight push toward the back door. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen when you’re done.”

  Twenty minutes later, I hurry back downstairs, having showered, finger-combed my damp hair into submission, thrown on a pair of denim Bermuda shorts and a green tank top, and swiped on the most minimal makeup application I could come up with. Josh rattles coffee cups in the kitchen, which means he’s finished putting away my assortment of trowels and garden rakes. Halfway down, I remember that his clothes are still tumbling through the wrinkle guard setting on my dryer. Hoping he hasn’t heard me coming, I tiptoe back to the laundry room to grab his shirt and pants, fold them neatly, and carry them down with a calm poise I don’t feel in the slightest.