That Sexy Stranger

by Nadia Lee

  Luke sticks out his lower lip. “Huh. Well, as annoying as I find your morning run to be today…that’s a wise answer. And not at all what I expected.”

  “What did you think it was about?”

  “Being in shape.”

  I snort. “I wouldn’t be this dedicated to a cause that minor. Like you said…you could’ve kept my heart rate up.” And it would’ve been hella more fun than running in the cold. And today’s my high-intensity day, too.

  The car stops in front of the townhouse. Luke turns, rests a forearm on my headrest, and runs his fingers gently through my hair. “Will you spend the rest of the day with me after your run?”

  My breath catches at the tenderness and admiration in his dark blue gaze. Nobody’s ever looked at me this way. And I instinctively realize what I have with Luke is more than just fun sex or chemistry. It’s something far more important…

  Almost like love.

  My heart stutters for a moment, the sensation unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant. I blink, then shake myself. I’m a planner. I like having goals and figuring out how to achieve them. But this…this is just so unexpected.

  And I don’t like surprises. Not to mention, Luke isn’t the kind of surprise that’s going to stick around. He doesn’t even live here.

  Still…

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After my run, I shower and grab another coffee and a chocolate bar as a reward. Michelle comes downstairs, yawning until her jaw cracks.

  “Good God, you can’t still be tired,” I say.

  “But I am.”

  “Didn’t you come home after the party?”

  “Mmm. No. I ran into somebody.” She frowns, pursing her lips. That means she’s thinking. And vaguely annoyed. Like when you find something that makes your skin break out in a makeup sample gift bag, which you spent over fifty bucks on to get some pricey cream.

  I hand her a mug of freshly brewed coffee, then start drinking mine for an extra boost. “Who?”

  “This guy I’ve been seeing on and off.” She scowls.

  “The one you did the walk of shame for way back when?”

  She doesn’t nod, but she doesn’t deny it, either.

  I lean forward. “Is he hot, at least? Any potential for marriage and beyond?” Michelle has two huge binders full of stuff about her dream wedding.

  Michelle chokes, then starts coughing. Once she’s recovered, she glares. “Ugh. No. He’s nobody’s Prince Charming. If there’s a hole, he sticks it in.”

  I scrunch my face. “Seriously?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I won’t judge you. At least he has a lot of experience.” She’s allowed to screw anybody she wants, and frankly, the guy’s probably a decent lover. Practice makes perfect and all that. Unless the guy’s a total idiot. I quit underestimating the level of stupidity some men can sink to my senior year of high school. “Just use him for sex before you find your dream man.”

  “Use him for sex?”

  “Why not? Unless he’s worse than your vibrator, in which case, dump him and get yourself a new boy toy.”

  Her brow furrows.

  “This is the twenty-first century. Men aren’t the only ones who can use women for sex.” I place my empty mug in the dishwasher. “Gotta go.”

  “Where to?”

  “To spend the rest of the day with my man.”

  “Luke?”

  I grin. “Yup.”

  “So you’ve decided? He’s the one?”

  I shake my head. “Who said anything about the one?”

  “That smile of yours.”

  “He’s really nice, but…he’s not going to be around for long.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he got an Airbnb. That’s about as short-term as it gets.”

  “So? Isn’t he some kind of digital nomad or something? He can work from anywhere, right?”

  Come to think of it… He’s a writer, so he actually doesn’t have to be anywhere in particular. Or does he? If he has to be in New York City or something, Virginia is close enough…

  Michelle languidly waves a hand. “Anyway, have fun.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The rest of the month and early March go well, almost too uneventfully.

  On the personal front, I’m at Luke’s rental more than my own place. Well. I only go home to grab fresh clothes or electronics. Still, I continue to have my girls’ Mexican Monday dinners—Jan, Michelle and I are big believers of maintaining our friendship, even if a couple of us are busy with men. The kind of support you get from your girlfriends is different from what you get from boyfriends, and it’s important to have both.

  Work is pretty demanding, made more so because I’m totally sleep-deprived these days. Luke’s the reason, of course. I don’t suffer from insomnia—at all—but he’s been keeping me up late. Sometimes he wakes me up early. Not that I’m complaining too much.

  It shocks me to admit it, but it’s not just sex that’s fun between us. And realizing that surprises me a bit. I don’t think I ever talked to my exes this much. We usually had sex, then I left to sleep in my own bed. But with Luke, it’s so easy for me to talk endlessly about everything.

  Traveling—

  “One of these days, you should put together a long vacation, at least two weeks, so we can go to Da Nang,” he says over a dinner, showing me his travel photos.

  “Da Nang?”

  “Vietnam. It’s one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  It rings a dim bell. “And pho?” Whenever I think Vietnam, I think about the noodle dish. Sort of like China and Peking duck.

  “I’ll take you to my favorite pho restaurant there—a tiny hole in the wall run by a hilariously cranky old lady. The food is to die for.”

  I grin. “Deal.”

  Plans—

  “You don’t hate surprises?” I ask, while resting my head on his chest. His heart thumps beneath my ear, the beat steady and comforting.

  “Why? Surprises are the best.”

  “I suppose you say that because you’re a writer.”

  “It’s not just because I’m a writer. But yeah—nobody likes a book without a few surprises.”

  I consider. “Fine. I only like them in books.”

  “Well, I love them in real life. Meeting you was the best surprise ever.”

  The past—

  “I quit college once I realized I wanted to be a writer. The money was better spent on travel and reading and working with other authors like me, rather than staying in classes, reading old classics that don’t really resonate with most people anymore.”

  “Don’t you want to win awards?” I’m not a writer, but I always felt like every novelist wants to win a big one—like the Nobel Prize in Literature or something.

  “Nope. I prefer to be read and enjoyed. And make enough to be comfortable.”

  “Yet you bought yourself a Porsche.”

  “Hey, everyone has a vice…”

  But I can’t do four to five hours of sleep a night for weeks on end. I don’t know how Luke stays fresh. He either doesn’t need much sleep or he naps when I’m at work. Or maybe he has a special slumber gnome who sleeps for him. Regardless—this weekend, I’m getting twenty hours of sleep, non-negotiable. If I have to, I’ll lock myself away at my place.

  I nurse my third coffee in the small meeting room. David and Tim are there. Joe from San Mateo has joined us via phone. David and I are trying to tell Tim why he should keep the two features he wants struck from the specs. Joe is sort of neutral, but if we can’t convince Tim, Joe isn’t going to insist on taking on the features.

  It takes two hours of fairly intense discussion before Tim gives in. “I see what you’re saying. We still need to adjust the scope by Friday, though.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” David says.

  “You do that.” Joe hangs up, and Tim grabs his stuff and rushes out to another confere
nce.

  “Thanks, Sammi,” David says as we’re leaving the meeting room. His smile is as wide and open as always, and I can’t help but smile back.

  “No problem,” I say. “I like what you’re trying to achieve, and I’m glad I was able to help.”

  When I return to my desk with my fourth coffee, I spot a glossy gift bag with a label that reads For Sammi. It’s unsigned, but I can tell it’s from Luke.

  There’s a single silver box in the bag, and I take it out and study it. Too light and large to be jewelry or an electronic gadget. I shake it, but can’t imagine what it could be. Only thing to do is open it up.

  Inside is a beautiful shawl in my favorite shade of pink. There are tiny lavender letters all over the fabric. I squint to read them, wondering if they’re maybe some fancy Italian verse, then give up, since I still have a lot of stuff to do before going home, and I don’t want to work late.

  I run my hand over the soft material, then put it around my shoulders. Sweet Darlings Inc. keeps our floor a bit cooler in winter than I’d like because we have so many computers running. And this winter’s been much colder than usual. It’s early March, and I’m still feeling the chill. Thankfully, the shawl keeps me just warm enough, and I can’t help but smile for the rest of the day.

  When I walk into Luke’s place, he’s typing away on his laptop at the faux-marble counter in the kitchen. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing the dark hair on his forearms. He looks so adorable with a small frown on his face, a pair of tinted glasses perched on his nose. He said that without them, his eyes become too dry. I’ve never dated a guy with glasses before, but I can see the appeal. Nerdy hotness is uber-sexy.

  Since my phone battery’s low, I plug it into a charger and place it next to his on the small table by the outlets. Luke and I have the exact same iPhones in the same black protectors, so I put mine on the right—S comes after L—so I can take the correct unit in the morning.

  That done, I wait quietly. I know how annoying it is when people break your focus.

  My patience is rewarded when he lifts his head in a few minutes and gives me a smile so radiant I feel like my heart’s glowing.

  I skip over to him and sit on his lap. His hands rest around my waist. “Did you have a productive day?” I ask.

  “Very,” he says. “You?”

  “It was good. Not too much overtime yet.” It’s too early in the development for that. “And thank you for the present. I loved it.”

  “My pleasure.” He links his hand with mine and kisses it. “I always thought pink would look great on you, but it’s even better than I imagined.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s your favorite color, isn’t it? Women look their best when they wear something they love.”

  I smile at him. I do look fabulous in pink, if I may say so, even though I haven’t worn the shade in ages. “What does the shawl say?”

  “It’s some scenes from my next release.”

  I gasp. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I need to get a magnifying glass ASAP.” I scramble to get off his lap. Normally I order online, but that’d take too long, even with express shipping. I’m going to have to brave the crowd and hit an actual physical store.

  Laughing softly, he tightens his hands around me. “You aren’t going anywhere. I’m going to give you an early review copy as soon as it’s ready.”

  “Really?” I flutter my eyelashes at him. “How much time do I have to read and review it?”

  “You don’t. It’s a girlfriend copy.”

  I grin like an idiot. For some reason, I really like hearing him call me girlfriend.

  “But in return, I want you to grab the box of toys.”

  I blink. “What box of toys?”

  “The one from the hotel…?”

  “Oh.” I pull my lips in for a moment. “I, um, don’t have it anymore.”

  “What?”

  “I gave it to Jan before she and Matt went on their vacation.”

  He looks at me like I’ve sprouted a new head. In pink. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “Because the toys were jinxed.”

  “You gave jinxed sex toys to your best friend.”

  “They aren’t jinxed with her. She got engaged. But if you want, I can order a new box.”

  “A non-Sammi-jinxed set…?”

  I nod, dead serious. “Uh-huh.”

  He studies me, then bursts out laughing. “I can never predict what’s going to come out of your mouth. I wish I could see into your mind sometimes.”

  “It’s very rational and neat in here.”

  “And you hate surprises.”

  “Yes.”

  He pulls the shawl off my shoulders. “Like this gift.”

  “Gifts are exempt,” I say primly.

  “Like this kiss.” He places his lips on my neck.

  “That’s also exempt. I have a short—but very utilitarian—exemption list.”

  He slips a hand under my shirt. “I have a very long and generous exemption list. It’s tattooed on my—”

  “No! I need to get some sleep tonight. So no keeping me up.”

  He pulls back and studies my face. “You do look a little tired.”

  “Very tired.” I yawn to make the point. “It’s makeup that’s making it only look like ‘a little.’”

  “We can’t have that.”

  “No, we can’t.” I shiver, suddenly feeling a little bit chilled where he and I aren’t touching, and pull the shawl closer. I sniffle.

  “Are you getting sick?”

  “No. I’m healthy as a horse. I almost never get sick. And I got the flu shot this year.”

  He looks at me skeptically. “Okay, sleep. But let’s get you fed first.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next day starts out badly. I oversleep, have to cut my morning run short by ten minutes, then rush out of Luke’s place without my usual coffee. At least I arrive at work on time. I grab a latte and two bags of sour gummy worms from the break room on the way to my workstation.

  I glare at Outlook, which dumps a torrent of emails into my inbox. I’m still tired, and my head is throbbing. I can barely process what’s on my monitor, especially without caffeine, so I don’t delete half the emails unread like usual. Just in case.

  Anyway, I must, must get caught up on sleep this weekend. It’s gotta be the lack of sleep that’s getting to me. Okay, so Luke didn’t keep me up last night. He somehow managed to get an amazing chicken noodle soup delivered, and we ate…and then I think I dozed off. That’s all I remember until getting up this morning. And if Luke and I had done anything, I would definitely remember.

  Although my a.m. run was sort of…half-assed today, my muscles and joints are slightly achy anyway. Must be all the extracurricular bedroom activity. I make a mental note to drink more water and stretch this evening.

  I pull out my phone to sync the day’s agenda. It has a proprietary company app that keeps track of all my meetings, tasks and so on. If anything’s canceled at the last minute, it updates everyone so we don’t waste our time.

  I tap on the smooth, cold glass screen without looking at it. I can tell from finger position alone what I’m typing because I’m just that good. The sync program on my computer shows red, which means the phone isn’t available. I try again, then look down with a scowl. Oh wait. Did I grab Luke’s phone?

  I see a gorgeous beach wallpaper picture—one he took in Da Nang—and sigh. Damn it.

  Since he doesn’t do Facebook, and I don’t know his email address, and his place doesn’t have a landline, I have to call my phone and hope he picks it up. There’s no way I can function the entire day without it, and I can’t go to his house to get it; I have a meeting in less than ten minutes.

  I look at the screen and enter my first guess. The phone unlocks. I smirk. Sleep-deprived or not, low on caffeine or not, I’m good. I should remind Luke
not to use his birthdate as a passcode. Might as well not secure his phone at all.

  A photo of a small boy and Luke fills the screen, and I stop. My thumb swipes across the picture, and another one slides over. This one doesn’t just have the boy and Luke, but a brunette in her mid- to late twenties as well. She’s gazing up at Luke like he’s one of the most adorable human beings she’s ever known. I stare at the image, my mind still sluggish. The caffeine and sugar from the coffee and gummy worms haven’t yet fully hit my system.

  Maybe she’s Luke’s cousin and the kid’s mom. She’s definitely the kid’s mom. The boy and she share the same mouth and jawline. But…

  I tilt my head. The boy also has Luke’s eyes and nose. And he’s looking at Luke as though he’s Iron Man, Spider-Man and Superman all rolled into one.

  I swipe my thumb a few more times, see more photos of Luke, the boy and the brunette looking very much like one extremely happy family. My mind keeps capturing the images, but my brain’s having a hard time processing them, as though it’s a compiler dealing with garbage code.

  Not garbage, I correct myself. Just containing one tiny, laughably easy to fix error.

  When I was in introductory computer science in college, the compiler barfed on my third assignment. I had no idea what was going on, and the error message referred to some improper floating-point arithmetic in my code, which didn’t make any sense—it was a simple program designed to take two inputs and dump a single line onto the monitor. I tore my hair out for two hours, then finally gave up and went to my TA for help. He took one look at my short code and said, “You put a comma here instead of a semicolon.”

  That small correction fixed the whole thing. And I never made that mistake again.

  I know the gibberish in my head is exactly the same thing. I’m just not making the simplest and easiest connection, which is why I’m floundering.