That Sexy Stranger

by Nadia Lee

  Luke claimed I like David the way I like a dog, but he has it all wrong. Always polite and sweet, David is a gentleman who would never put me in a bad situation. Not to mention, we’re superbly compatible in so many ways. Our family backgrounds are similar—loving parents, good relationships with siblings, materially comfortable. We’re also college-educated, smart and nice. All that is the necessary foundation to which I need to add the flaming Easter bunnies in order for me to have lasting success in my personal life.

  Once David’s done with his non-black-wearing girl, I’m sure I’m going to feel the spark because we’ll be ready to move on. Until then, I can bide my time. Maybe even give Luke a chance, since he’s being persistent. Nothing permanent, obviously, because he’s only in the area temporarily—Airbnb says it all—and I don’t know anything about him, and I don’t seriously date anyone I can’t do a full background check on. But I can have a nice little fling while David’s getting over his ex. That should also keep me distracted so I’m not checking David’s Instagram and Facebook feeds every hour to see what he’s up to with TOWIMWa.

  But I have no intention of just giving in to Luke. That would be way too easy. Men don’t value what they didn’t have to work for. So he’s going to have to earn this girl.

  My plan is simple. If Luke joins me for another run on Saturday, I’ll definitely give him a chance. Saturday is my hard day this week, and I want to see if he can keep up—mostly because I think it’s hot when a guy can keep up with me. And because I want to make sure he’s persistent, rather than somebody who gives up because I didn’t fall into his arms after that one kiss.

  Of course, once I’ve made that monumental decision and Saturday comes, I’m in the middle of my run and Luke is nowhere to be found. Damn him. Why can’t he be consistent? This is just so freakin’ wrong. Now I have to come up with a different criterion to qualify him. Maybe I can ask him to jump out of a plane with a slightly defective parachute, except that doesn’t make any sense. What if the parachute is really defective and he dies? I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to dating, but I have my standards. He should’ve just shown up this morning.

  By the time I’m done with my run—I even tacked on an extra ten minutes of walking at the end, just in case—I’m drenched. And my irritation level is at one hundred and fifteen percent.

  I shower with super-hot water and put on a robe. I should use the massage chair in the living room to work out the tightness in my muscles. Well. Coffee first, then the massage chair.

  There I can debate whether I should let Luke know how he’s set back his case by not showing up today to bug me. I bet he’s sleeping in. He ought to know lazy birds get no dates.

  I almost yelp when I reach the kitchen. Michelle’s there, bleary-eyed, her unbrushed hair tangled around her shoulders. She sticks out her lower lip and gives me a forlorn puppy look.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. She’s almost never this up early on weekends.

  “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

  I make a face. “Sorry.”

  Michelle usually sleeps like the dead. She can slumber through construction work, drunken parties and thunderstorms. Sometimes I wonder if she’s a vampire that drops dead at certain hour, then jumps back up when it’s wakey-wakey time. But occasionally—about two or three times a year—she has a minor bout of insomnia, as in she only gets six hours of sleep, rather than the usual eight or nine.

  She’s truly pitiful during those times.

  “Want some coffee?” I ask.

  “I’ve already had two cups.” She sighs. “I’m waiting for them to work their magic.”

  That’s not happening. Caffeine can never replace sleep in the Michelle-verse. But I guess one has to have hope.

  “Besides, it isn’t like I have to be totally rested to pack for Jan’s trip. I could do that with my eyes closed,” she adds.

  Oh yeah… Matt and Jan are leaving today. I totally forgot.

  We go up to Jan’s bedroom. She isn’t there, since she dashed over to Matt’s as soon as his BMW pulled into the driveway. I drag a suitcase out of her walk-in closet.

  “How was the run?” Michelle asks.

  “Eh. Good, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Luke didn’t show.”

  “Um… Was he supposed to?”

  “Yes. How am I supposed to know if he’s interested if he doesn’t show up to bug me during a run?”

  Michelle kind of squints and nods at the same time. “Uh-huh. Well… Maybe his car broke down.” She places some of Jan’s underwear and a few cute summer tops and shorts into the suitcase.

  “That’s no excuse. He’s got a place in the neighborhood.” Which reminds me… “Do you know anyone who’s doing Airbnb around here?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Never mind.” I can probably hack into the HOA database again and see who’s doing short-term rentals. That way I can figure out where Luke’s staying and have him evicted. A man too lazy to follow through after that kiss shouldn’t be allowed to stay in the same neighborhood as me.

  What if he had a heart attack? Or an aneurysm?

  Dear mind, no. He didn’t have either. Let’s come up with a more plausible excuse for his absence, shall we?

  I go and get the last thing Jan’s going to need—my unused sex toy collection, “Sensual Surprise”—and dump the box into the suitcase.

  “You’re giving that to Jan?” Michelle says, one eyebrow raised. She zips up the bag.

  “Yup. The whole thing’s cursed for me, but that’ll change with a new owner.” I may be superstitious, but I’m also practically superstitious. There’s no reason to throw out perfectly good, never-been-used toys just because they and I aren’t meant to be.

  “There’s the Sammi I remember,” Michelle says with a sleepy smile. “So what’s the game plan?”

  “How do you know I have a game plan?”

  “You always have a game plan.”

  True.In fact, I came up with one while we were packing. But before I can tell her about it—as I often do so I can hear myself talk and work out any kinks—the doorbell rings. I go down, assuming it’s Matt coming over to collect Jan’s suitcase, but it’s a delivery guy with a bouquet of pink peonies. There’s not a single sunflower in the bundle, so it can’t be for Jan. Besides, Matt would’ve just had them delivered to his place, since she’s there more anyway.

  “Yes?” Must be for Michelle. Has she been holding out on me? As soon as the deliveryman’s gone, I’m going to commence a through inquisition about this new man.

  “Samantha Jamieson?”

  I blink. “That’s me…”

  “Sign here.” The flower man pushes a small tablet my way, and I reflexively scribble my initials with my fingertip. He hands me the bouquet and disappears.

  I stare at the peonies in my arms. What the hell? I scowl. It better not be Gerald. He’s been calling me at work and leaving voice mails because I blocked his number on my mobile. Then I stop. The few times he bothered to get me flowers—which only happened when he wanted something from me or did something he shouldn’t have—they were always grocery store roses in red. What are the odds that he’s figured out what my favorite flowers are at this late date?

  “Those are nice.” Michelle covers her mouth as she yawns. “Who sent them?”

  “I have no clue.” I take them to the kitchen and pull out the stiff card stuck in the midst of blossoms.

  Raven girl,

  Have dinner with me. 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up.

  –Luke

  I flip the card and see a line of handwritten cursive. I pause for a moment to admire the bold, precise lines. The flourish is beautiful without being overly ornate.

  Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda.

  Since there’s no way I’m going to not find out why Luke chose to send me this particular phrase, I pull out my phone to look it up. It probably doesn’t mean “I’m going to eat you like a second serving of flavorful chicken,” because I’m
almost certain poca is not poultry…although it might be. The only language I speak other than English is programming code.

  Google doesn’t fail me. A great flame follows a little spark. It’s from Paradiso in Dante’s Divina Commedia.

  What an interesting choice.

  I tap the counter with the edge of the note with a small, bemused smile. Maybe I don’t need to have him jump out of a plane with a defective parachute after all.

  “Who are they from?” Michelle asks.

  I hand her the card.

  She skims it. “Wow. The Divine Comedy.”

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “Studied it in one of my lit courses.” Michelle arches an eyebrow. “Seven, huh?”

  “I know. Totally presumptuous,” I say with a smile I can’t suppress. “What if I’m not home, or my answer’s a big, fat no?”

  “Uh-huh. The word you’re looking for is confident. Besides, why does it matter when you’ve made up your mind?” She leans closer. “So which is it?”

  “I’ll see him at seven, of course, provided I don’t get called in to help out with the sandbox migration later today.”

  “Ooooh.”

  “A preliminary interview,” I say.

  She makes a face. “An interview? Is it for an opening?” Then she snorts a laugh, and I join her.

  “God, that’s a terrible joke,” I say.

  “I only had six hours of sleep. It’s brilliant.”

  “You and your sleep. Anyway, shut up and listen. I have it all planned out…”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Since Luke didn’t say where we’re going, I decide to dress up. I don’t often get to, and somehow the sight of the pink peonies makes me feel… Hmm. I search for a word. Appreciated? Feminine? Something like that.

  Not sure why. My other dates have given me flowers, mostly red or pink roses. But the ones from Luke feel more. More special. More meaningful. More…everything. Maybe because he went the extra mile to figure out where I live and send me my favorite flowers in my favorite shade. I bury my nose in the bouquet to inhale the sweet scent, then put on a fitted black dress and knee-high boots. I do some fancy makeup, especially for my eyes, and study my reflection critically. Good enough. A bit too dressy if we go to a casual place, but oh well. He’ll just have to deal, because I haven’t bought dresses in anything other than black since I’ve been shopping with David in mind in the last four years.

  My plan for the evening is fantastic. Michelle communicated her approval of it via silence; usually she has a hundred suggestions about how to do this or that better.

  Since I have a few minutes to kill, I compile the code I’ve been working on earlier in the afternoon and check the status of the sandbox migration. So far, so good. Hopefully nobody will call.

  Knocks on the door. I check the time.

  Exactly seven.

  I open the door. Luke’s standing there in a pale silver sweater and dark jeans. The coat he has on is black and looks soft, and he’s holding a bottle of liquor wrapped with small pink bows. His warm gaze skims over me appreciatively, and I feel my mouth twitch in a beginning of a smile and something like want.

  Well. He is a damn good-looking guy. I know how hard and fit his body is, too. Most importantly, he knows how to kiss well. The memory kept popping into my mind all day at the most inopportune moments, leaving me breathless.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump into bed with him. Not quite yet, anyway.

  “Lovely.” He steps closer and wraps his free arm around me, pulling me closer. He dips his head for a lick across my lips. “Delicious.”

  His tongue’s quick and hot, and it’s gone before I can dart mine out for a taste of my own. I let out a low sigh, my mouth and body humming. If this weren’t our first dinner, I might just drag him inside, but I have plans.

  And I’m a big believer of sticking to them.

  So instead, I press my lips against his. “Mmm. So are you.”

  I give him a quick grin, then take the bottle. It’s an exquisite Japanese plum wine with gold plum blossom petals in it that I’ve been eyeing for a while but didn’t buy. The gift surprises me as much as the flowers because it’s unusual, and he wouldn’t have thought to pick this particular one if he hadn’t gone to some trouble to learn my tastes. From anybody else it might be a coincidence, but I doubt Luke’s the type to leave things to chance. I can appreciate a man who does his homework.

  I place the bottle on the kitchen counter, then turn to him. “Just so you know, I’m on call for the migration this weekend. I would’ve told you if you’d bothered to leave a number. So there’s a small chance I may need to bail in the middle of dinner.”

  He frowns. Guess he didn’t think about that little kink, although he was there when Tim and I spoke about the migration on Thursday. It was probably hard to focus while sitting on the anal plug.

  Finally, he nods. “Okay.”

  Well then. With full disclosure out of the way, we leave the house. He opens the door to a silver Porsche. I climb inside, admiring the gorgeous interior. This is a huge upgrade from my previous datemobiles. I could get used to it.

  “Does every freelancing nomad drive a Porsche?” I say when Luke’s behind the steering wheel.

  “Not in my experience.” He shoots a quick glance my way as he pulls out of the driveway.

  I wait for him to elaborate. His “freelancing nomad” obviously doesn’t mean unemployed and bumming around. He’s too moneyed, too smart. But he also doesn’t have the entitled arrogance of a guy who inherited a fortune.

  “You looked me up,” he says instead.

  “Of course. Didn’t you? To figure out where I live?”

  He just smiles.

  “How did you find me, anyway?” I’ve set all my social media privacy settings to prevent them from broadcasting my location. When you’re a single female, you can’t be too careful, even if your neighborhood is relatively safe and you have a couple of housemates. I doubt he hacked into Sweet Darlings Inc.’s HR database. That’s pretty extreme for most people. I mean, even I’ve only done it once.

  “Offline research. Heard from a talkative accountant that you live with Jan Doe, who happens to own the townhouse. Then it was just a matter of looking at tax records.”

  I roll my eyes at the mention of a “talkative accountant.” There’s exactly one who fits that description. “Izzy?”

  “Uh-huh. You know her? She doesn’t work on your floor.”

  “She doesn’t belong there, but yeah. I know her.”

  Izzy Friday is the biggest gossip and one of the most annoying and unworthy human beings at Sweet Darlings Inc. I’ve never had the misfortune of working with her, but from what I’ve heard, she isn’t that great at her job. But being crappy at her job doesn’t make her subhuman in my book. I mean, not everyone can be a superstar in their chosen career. It’s the other things she does that make me actively dislike her.

  For one, she gets a crush on any guy who’s hot. That includes Matt, who she knows is taken. For another, she has the discretion of a bullfrog in heat. When she got drunk at our New Year’s Eve party, she told me if she could, she’d sleep with him—and a few other guys at the company. I hope she didn’t realize who she was talking to, because if she did, that legit makes her a classless bitch on top of everything else. Everyone at Sweet Darlings knows Jan and I are super tight.

  “She must’ve loved talking with you.” There’s a hint of bite in my tone. I can’t help it; the guy I have plans for was socializing with that skank. I clear my throat. “Next time, just ask me directly if you have questions.”

  “Would you have told me?”

  “Not then, but I’m with you now, aren’t I?” I cross my legs and change the topic, since I don’t want to spoil the rest of the evening with thoughts of Izzy. “So where are we going?”

  “A sushi restaurant.”

  “Sushi?”

  “It’s your favorite.” He grins.

  �
��Okay, this is starting to get a little freaky. How do you know?”

  “You have some pretty lively Instagram and Pinterest accounts. On the Gourmet board, you pinned Japanese food the most…even though you seem to eat Mexican the most, if your Instagram account is to be believed.”

  “I like nachos and five-dollar margaritas.” I cock my head. “Is that how you found out about my favorite flowers?”

  He nods.

  “But there’s nothing about pink being my favorite.”

  “You had a pink bow on your thong that night. Figured there was a reason.”

  I tilt my head and study him. The bow wasn’t big or anything, so I’m surprised he noticed, much less remembered. Most guys would’ve been too busy staring at my chest or ass. Okay, probably my ass. “It’s kind of unfair. I have so little info on you. Your social media sucks.” Then something else strikes me, and I scowl. “How did you see my Instagram and Pinterest feeds? You don’t have an account with either.”

  “I have a couple dummy accounts, which I only use to take a peek at other accounts.”

  “No way.” It’s like a high-level spook network. “You legit need to have active accounts if you’re going to spy on people.”

  He laughs. “I don’t have any real interest in social media.”

  “Yeah. It didn’t take me long to figure that out. It was so sad—I had to look up your parents, too, just in case they mentioned you or something.”

  The light in his gaze dims. But a bright smile returns so quickly that I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. I didn’t say anything weird, did I? Or does he think researching his parents is too out there?

  Suddenly uneasy, I do something I’ve never done before—explain the logic behind my digging to the subject of said digging. “I only did it because I’m a firm believer in dating someone who’s like me.”

  “Like you? How?”

  I nod. “There are exceptions, but in general, people who have similar backgrounds and values tend to get along better…and someone’s background usually determines his values.” It was advice from my mom from an early age. My parents’ marriage is still strong after four grown-up kids, so she must know what she’s doing. Not that I’m looking for an immediate marriage or anything. I’m still too young, and it’s not in my near future. But that doesn’t mean I can’t scout potential candidates, and David’s still at the top of my list.