Breathless

by Maria Luis

  With dread, I notice that he isn’t heading toward the restaurant’s front door. Rather, his feet are carrying him toward Darci and I.

  “Darc,” he murmurs in a low voice, “how’d it go today?”

  I finally glance at her. She’s got her head piece thrown back, revealing sweaty blonde hair and a red face. I doubt I look any better. Her eyes, however, are annoyed.

  She thrusts a talon in his direction. “I told your dad that this is the most pointless marketing tactic to ever exist.”

  Jake slips his sunglasses off his face and hooks them over his unbuttoned collar, revealing sharp blue eyes that have the ability to wet panties upon impact. “I’ll mention it to him.”

  “I’ll quit, Jake,” Darci says, folding her arms over her sequined bustier. “When I took the receptionist job, dressing up like a chicken and passing out fried drumsticks was not in my contract.”

  “Like I said, Darc, I’ll talk to my father about it.”

  “You said that last week.”

  “The chicken thing is a tradition,” he murmurs, “and my father hates breaking with tradition.”

  She plucks at the waistband of her booty shorts with a look of disgust. “The outfit, however, is not tradition.”

  “No,” Jake says slowly, piquing my interest, “that’s a recent addition, as you know.” Blue eyes land on me. “A six-week addition.”

  My mouth falls open just as Darci huffs something about integrity before storming off in the direction of the restaurant. But I’m still in shock, because if I’m reading the situation correctly then that means the bustier-booty shorts combo started about the time that I came on . . .

  The spring breeze catches in Jake’s brown hair, blowing the short strands into disarray. “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” he murmurs, slipping one hand casually into the front pocket of his slacks. “Haven’t had the chance to lay an egg yet and work out your aggression?”

  Like clockwork, he falls into our weekly rhythm of him baiting me into removing my head piece. Like clockwork, I refuse to remove anything until I’m tucked away in the employee’s bathroom, where I can fix myself up. After that, I usually scope out the area for his presence, so I can escape without talking to him.

  Because I’m a mature, twentysomething-year-old woman, and things like talking to cute guys don’t bother me.

  Ha.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I throw his way, snatching the silver tray from the ground and following Darci. “Maybe talking to Celia?”

  Confusion laces his rumbling baritone when he asks, “Who’s Celia?”

  “The woman who showed up this morning? Bawling her eyes out? A redhead?” When all he does is stare at me blankly, I roll my eyes. “You took her out for dinner last week and then never called her after?”

  His silence says everything.

  And this is the reason why I will never let Jake into my pants, even if he tried—which he hasn’t. I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment, but aside from his sarcastic commentary that often borders on the flirtatious, Jake Matthews keeps to his side of the drawn line.

  He stays on his side; I stay on mine.

  Meanwhile, I go to bed each night wondering if he does, in fact, possess a magical penis. Verdict is out on that one, but based on the number of women chasing him, I’m tempted to believe that he does.

  “I have no idea why women put up with you.” My hand wraps around the front door’s handle, but when I pull, nothing happens. I glance up to see that Jake has his palm flat against the door. I meet his gaze in the reflection. “The longer you keep me out here, the more your father has to pay me. Feel free to take up the rest of my day.”

  “Is that the only reason you keep this gig?” His palm slides down the worn wood, coming to rest alongside my hand on the door handle. “We both know the pay is shit.”

  It’s true—the pay isn’t good, but it’s better than nothing. While I wait for my agent to book me legitimate acting gigs, I’ve built a solid clientele which keeps me afloat from week to week. It might not be for everyone, but it works for me, and that’s all that matters.

  “If you’re so concerned that I’m getting paid next to nothing, tell your father to give me a raise,” I tell Jake. “You won’t hear me complain.”

  “I don’t handle the books.”

  “But you handle the costume choices?”

  I watch his expression closely, noting the way his gaze lights with humor as he slowly peruses my suit. “I was trying to spruce it up for you,” he says, “give the hen a little flair to match her owner.”

  “I don’t prance around in bustiers and hot pants all day.”

  “That’s a damn shame.”

  Before I work out a proper response to that surprising comment, his fingers brush mine, sending my heart into a traitorous thump-thump-thump against my ribs. Then his fingers leave mine, and I watch as if in slow motion as his hand goes for my head piece.

  Noooo.

  He decapitates me without further deliberation, sending my chicken head flailing to the tiled stoop. My hands grapple for the beak, but Jake wraps a confident hand around my elbow and turns me to face him.

  The victorious smirk on his handsome face both infuriates me and inflames me, and I poke him in the chest with a talon.

  Only, it doesn’t have quite the desired effect—the talon is made out of a flimsy material, and it crumples under the force of my finger-jab.

  He ignores my humiliation. “You know, I don’t think I’ve actually seen your face since the first day you started.”

  Really? This is what he wants to discuss? “You see me every week,” I bite out.

  I’m fully aware of my brown hair plastered with sweat to the side of my face. I didn’t bother with makeup this morning, either, which really . . . enough said. I look like Hell. A sweaty, B.O-smelling woman with nowhere to hide.

  Jake kicks the chicken head out of the way, as though seeking to eliminate any chance I have of making a grab for it. “I forgot you had brown eyes,” he says, and, cheesy as it is, our gazes lock and hold. “Can’t see much of you when you’re surrounded by yellow feathers.”

  “What, have you just been waiting for the chance to get a glimpse of my face?” Sarcasm drips from my tongue when I add, “Do you have a crush on me, Mr. Matthews?”

  Dimples pierce his cheeks as he grins. “Would you like that, Miss Holloway? Me having a crush on you?”

  If this is a battle of the words, I’m very close to losing. It’s not even my fault—I’ve never stood so close to him before, and certainly not close enough to catch a hint of his cologne. It’s something masculine and woodsy, and . . . and I slam my eyes shut to stop my wandering thoughts. “Are you bored?”

  “You tell me. I’m standing here talking to a woman in a chicken suit . . . should I be bored?”

  “I think you’re trying to rile me up,” I answer, opening my eyes in time to see him flick his gaze away from my mouth. “I think you’re bored and have nothing better to do, and every week I provide a certain measure of entertainment.”

  “You are an actress,” he murmurs, one corner of his mouth kicking up in a sexy half grin. “It’s practically your job to entertain people.”

  “It’s not my job to entertain you.”

  “Because . . .?”

  Seriously, he wants me to list out the reasons? Fine, I’ll do it—gladly. Crossing my arms over my feathered chest, I say, “I have standards.”

  “Do you?” He doesn’t sound like he believes me.

  “Yes,” I sniff.

  “So, I don’t meet your criteria?”

  My eyes go wide at that, but I manage to restrain my surprise. I’m an actress, and I put on a show to deflect from the truth. “I’m so sorry, Jake.” I go all out, patting his corded forearm when he frowns, and lowering my voice as though I don’t want to hurt him. “This is so incredibly awkward, but you have so many admirers . . . they obviously like what you’re putting out.”


  His blue eyes narrow. “And you don’t?”

  “If you’re trying to ask me if you’re my type . . .” I give a little shrug. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re great, Jake, but I need a little more.”

  “Like what?” he grinds out from between gritted teeth.

  “A man who’s loyal for one.”

  His mouth twists, twin fires sparking in his blue eyes. “You know what I think, Claire?”

  “Is this where I tell you that I don’t care?”

  His hands land on either side of my head on the door, and he lowers his face close to mine. “I think you’re jealous,” his whispers in a soft voice. “I think you’re jealous that not once in six weeks have I tried to strip you naked.”

  Ignoring the rapid pounding in my heart, I shake my head. “No, Mr. Matthews, I don’t think that’s the case at all. In fact, I think it might be the other way around completely.” I’ve so fallen into the tense moment reverberating between us that I don’t even realize that the reason his face is growing nearer is because I’ve lifted my clawed-hand to the back of his head and pulled him down.

  His eyes flash, but I don’t heed the warning.

  “You know what I think?” I whisper when his lips are a hair’s breadth away from mine.

  In a voice pitched from gravel, he murmurs, “Something tells me you’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not.”

  I ignore his sass. “I think that you’re annoyed that in six weeks, I’ve never once thrown myself at you. That I haven’t demanded to see your magical penis—”

  “Did you just say that I have a magical penis?”

  “But let’s get this straight, Jake Matthews,” I plow forward, unrelenting. “You may think you’re Mr. Hot Shot, but it takes more than a pretty face and a ritzy car to get on my good—”

  His lips crash down on mine. It’s so brief, so hard, so un-romantic, that I don’t even have the chance to acknowledge the fact that Jake’s lips are on mine before he’s already pulling away. One glance up at his expression tells me that this kiss wasn’t about romance, though. It was about shutting me up.

  “I don’t know what women see in you,” I say, repeating what I’d uttered earlier, just so I can see frustration skit across his features. “Your kiss is lackluster.”

  “But my cock is magical, apparently.” He steps back, his gaze still on me, and I’d be lying if that one look doesn’t totally warm my girl parts.

  I cock my hip out and go for a can’t-be-bothered pose. “Are you fleeing, Mr. Matthews?”

  “Just going to go brush up on my kissing skills, Miss Holloway. Don’t be jealous.” And then the bloody man winks—winks! “I’ll see you next week,” he says huskily. “Try not to think about me at night, sweetheart.”

  “There’s no way I’m thinking about you tonight or any other night!” I holler after his retreating back.

  But as I watch him stroll over to his Mustang, I can’t help but acknowledge the fact that he’s right. Because even though his kiss wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns and pots of treasure, it was the exact opposite—devilish, needy, and hot.

  As much as I don’t want to admit it, Jake’s kiss has left me breathless. And I desperately want another taste.

  3

  Jake

  Ever have that problem where you want what you can’t have?

  Yeah, me neither.

  Until Claire Holloway.

  Trust me, I’m not some trust fund kid who’s got everything at his disposal. Let’s put this into perspective, shall we?

  My Ford Mustang Shelby GT 1965? Earned after working for five years for the biggest asshole Manhattan has ever seen.

  A law degree from Columbia? Blood, sweat, and tears, my friends. Also, late nights spent at my parent’s restaurant, serving chicken drumsticks, cornbread dressing, and one too many sides of baked beans, while having my ass pinched by little old ladies.

  (Sometimes they slipped me an extra dollar or two in tips, so you can bet I put on a real nice smile each time they reached a little too close to my junk.)

  The five rental units I own over in Astoria? Purchased with student loans from law school, and also thanks to feasting only on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches during my early twenties. They’re fully paid off now, and make me a pretty penny, but . . .

  Point is, I work hard for what I have, and rarely do I want something that isn’t attainable. I operate on determination and a whole lot of don’t-back-down fire.

  Except for Claire.

  My gaze cuts to her through the driver’s side window. She’s still standing there, under The Roost and Hen’s front overhang, looking utterly ridiculous in her yellow-feathered chicken suit. She’s got talons for feet, talons for hands, and a sequined bra and a pair of metallic hot pants that would look out of place anywhere but at a Vegas show.

  The bra and shorts, I mean—not the talons. The chicken costume itself looks like leftover trash from a B-rated horror movie.

  Her brown hair is disheveled, thick, and for one hot second, I let myself think about those dark strands spread across my pillow, on my bed, at my house, as I thrust into her tight little body.

  See, thing is, Fantasy Claire and Real-Life Claire share not a single characteristic.

  The former is biddable but sexy, willing to let me do what I want when I want.

  The latter is feisty, gorgeous, and ten different types of independent female, the likes of which turns me on more than Fantasy Claire ever could.

  As if she can read my thoughts, Real-Life Claire lifts her hand, presses a kiss to the middle talon, and promptly flips me the bird.

  Is it wrong that I want to tumble her into bed for that?

  Much as I want to throw open the door and crash my mouth down on hers again—and, Jesus, do I want to—doing so would only make her run. I may have met her only six weeks ago, but in these short six weeks, I’ve learned a few things about her, thanks to my knack for persistence.

  She hates shrimp—bless her soul.

  She’s a blonde by birth, but has been faking the chestnut-hair gig for a few years now, ever since an agent told her she’d be “limited” in her acting roles if she didn’t go for a darker, sultrier look.

  She loves the movie Leap Year, even though she is a self-proclaimed “non-romantic.”

  And, last but not least, she hates my guts.

  Which is the only reason I know that I’ve pushed as far as I can go with her today.

  Aware that she’s still watching me, I opt to make her squirm by blowing her a kiss in return.

  Even from here, I can see the way her eyes narrow and her talons curl into fists, just before she shouts, “Screw you, Jake,” and stomps back into the restaurant.

  Unlucky for her, her costume is much too wide—all the better to make the chicken look like it has child-bearing hips—and she meets resistance when she tries to shove her way through the doorway. It takes her three hip thrusts and a shimmy before the widest part of the costume slips through the frame and she disappears inside.

  Not to be weird, but I can’t fucking wait to strip that damn chicken suit off her and spend hours worshipping the trim body underneath.

  Thirty minutes later, I enter perhaps one of the only dive bars my Brooklyn neighborhood, Park Slope, has to offer. It’s dark with wood-paneled walls, black concrete floors, and a keg that looks as though it hasn’t been touched since the first Bush took office in the eighties.

  The fact that it’s positioned next to the restroom only makes it more questionable.

  “Jake,” my law firm partner, Max, says when I slip into the bar stool opposite his, “where the hell have you been?”

  Kissing a gorgeous woman in a chicken suit.

  Obviously, that’s not what I say. I flag down the bartender and order myself a beer. “Stopped by the restaurant.”

  A bit of an understatement, but neither Max, nor our other partner, Devin, need to know the particulars.

  The three of us started out together at
the same firm ten years ago. Shest and McDonald Law may have given me the Shelby GT and my two best friends, but it’s also the reason why I lost thirty pounds, developed insomnia, and inched my way up the scale of Asshole. The stress was a killer, and five years under Shest and McDonald was honestly five years too many.

  When Max, Devin, and I branched out and created our own firm, the weight came back (and I hit the gym religiously), my need for cigarettes and alcohol abated, and life as I knew it got immensely better.

  Not that life isn’t stressful, because it is, but age, experience, and a learned ability to not give a fuck, has allowed me to take things as they come and not overreact.

  Which is why, when Max and Devin exchange a weird look, I only take a pull from my beer and cock an eyebrow.

  “We have a problem,” Devin says five seconds later.

  I bring the beer bottle up to my lips again. “I told you not to fuck the receptionist.”

  Max’s blue eyes go wide. “Dude, again?” He, too, drains his beer. “I thought we talked about you keeping your whorish ways out of the office. Dick in your pants at all times--that is the only rule we have.”

  A foot connects with my knee under the table at the same time Devin grunts, “My dick hasn’t left my pants.”

  Both Max and I stare at him.

  “Okay, Jesus, fine,” Devin mutters, “I can’t be a monk, guys, I’m sorry. But I promise you that I haven’t had sex with the receptionist.”

  Neither Max nor I look away.

  Devin’s eyes fall shut. “All right, fine, I did. But it was only one time, and I swear I didn’t ask for it. There I was, wrapping up for the night—minding my own damn business—when she came in, shut the door, and told me to strip.”

  “And you did it?” Max asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to tell her no. Have you seen her body?”

  “Unlike you,” I say wryly, “both Max and I know when to keep our dicks in our pants.”

  Devin’s mouth opens before quickly clamping shut. There’s not much he can say to defend himself, and I’ve never known him to say no to a woman. Max and I speculate that Devin’s the prime example for mommy issues, but since his cock hasn’t fallen off thus far (that we know of), we aren’t too concerned with policing his sexual proclivities—outside of the office.