by Jana Aston
“Why not?”
“It’s kinda last-minute,” I offer because I don’t have anything better.
“That’s a weak excuse.”
“I don’t know you.”
“How well do you know anyone?”
Good point.
“I’m trying to focus on my career right now.” I say it firmly. It’d probably be more effective if I wasn’t wearing a wedding dress in the middle of a workday. His eyes drop to the offending garment and then back to mine again before he speaks.
“How’s that working out for you?”
“You know.” I shrug. “It could be better, could be worse.”
The train stops at Twenty-Eighth and we’re quiet again as passengers jostle around us, exiting and entering.
“What about your girlfriend?” I ask when it’s quiet again. I meet his eyes with a challenging stare while remembering the beautiful girl from yesterday. “She won’t mind?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” he scoffs. “That vile creature from yesterday was my sister. Now do you have any other assumptions about me that I need to correct? I’m not into threesomes. I’m not a model and I am most definitely not dating my sister.” I raise my brows in challenge and he adds, “Or anyone who is not my sister.”
“I just…” My eyes fall to his chest and I rub the palm of my free hand against my hip, bunching the material in my fist before releasing it. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for you.”
“It’s just dinner, Lauren,” he says and dammit if just his voice doesn’t turn me on. “Say yes. You can wash your hair another night,” he adds with his dimpled grin.
I tear my eyes from his mouth and wave a finger at him while narrowing my eyes. “I do actually need to wash my hair.”
“Sure.” He nods.
“And I have a book club meeting tonight.”
“A book club meeting? On a Friday night?”
“It’s a very progressive book club.”
“Good. So they won’t mind if I come.”
“You want to come to my book club meeting?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Um, because you haven’t read the book?”
“That sounds pretty discriminatory coming from a progressive book club.”
“That we’d require you read the book to attend?” I laugh.
“Maybe I’ll buy the book after hearing it discussed. Did you ever think of that? You’d be doing the author a disservice by turning me away.”
“But there will be spoilers. You’ll know how it ends before you begin.”
“Is that why you won’t have dinner with me? Because you think you know how it ends before it even begins?”
He’s right.
“Eight o’clock,” I tell him. “We meet at the Book Bar on Seventh and Charles.”
Chapter 5
I washed my hair.
I also shaved my legs… and everywhere else. Just in case. Because there is no possible way I’m sleeping with Max—a guy I met yesterday. If he even shows up, that is. He probably won’t. He’s probably some nutjob with a fetish for walking around the city making women swoon before he disappears. Trust me, it wouldn’t even be the strangest fetish in this city.
But it never hurts to wash your hair. It needed to be done anyway, and it’s hard to get extended bathroom time with four girls sharing an apartment so it’s best to take advantage when you can. That’s what I’m telling myself anyhow.
So it doesn’t matter if he shows up or not. I washed my hair for me, not for the hot guy with the dimples and the flat stomach. The guy with the blue eyes, strong arms and dark hair. The one who managed to put a smile on my face during a really craptastic day.
God, I hope he shows up.
I’m wearing a white sundress. I think it’s a funny nod to today’s bridal dress fiasco, so why not? It’s a knee-length dress with a bohemian vibe and spaghetti straps. I’ve paired it with strappy espadrilles and a blush-colored summer-weight cardigan.
As I examine myself in the mirror I wonder if this look is too sweet. I wonder if I should change into jeans and low-cut shirt. Or maybe a long skirt with a tank top. Or—fuck it. I look cute. Besides, I’m going to a book club meeting, not a date.
Right?
I stuff my eReader into my bag and leave my apartment. The elevator was fixed while I was at work, so my exit from the building is smoother than it was this morning. Maybe, just maybe, this day is going to end better than it started.
I hit the sidewalk and marvel in the wonder that is this city while I walk. It’s not gotten hot yet and with the sun just about to set for the night, the temperature has dropped into a range for a perfect summer evening. The Book Bar is about a ten-minute walk from my apartment and I enjoy the walk. I’m used to walking most places now, something that would have been unfathomable to me when I lived in Iowa. I used to move my car from one end of the shopping center to the other.
But now I walk. And I love it. I love the people-watching and the noise. The sound of cabs honking has become almost meditative to me now. I pass restaurants with sidewalk seating, conversations spilling out along with the clink of cutlery. Drugstores with automatic doors swishing open and closed as people hurry in and out. There’s a fervor of possibility everywhere you look here.
My book club meets at this really cool hybrid shop on Seventh. They sell wine and books—a Manhattan bookworm’s dream. There’s an area towards the back reserved for book club meetings. A couple of mismatched sofas and an odd assortment of chairs fill the space. They’re covered in colorful pillows and there’s a big beat-up coffee table in the middle of it all, the kind you can rest your feet on or spill a drop of red wine on and no one cares.
It’s heaven tucked into the middle of the city.
My book club consists of an assortment of women of varying ages and backgrounds. At first glance you might not think we had anything in common, yet we unite once a month over a love of books and any surface differences we have melt away. Our group includes a nurse, a college student, and a real estate agent, just to name a few.
We’re the first Friday group—romance novels. The shop hosts book clubs all the time, with different genres meeting on different weeks, different days. It’s open to everyone—the store posts a schedule of what each group is reading so anyone can join in anytime.
Don’t expect anything, I tell myself as I open the door to the Book Bar. You’re here for your book club, not a date. If he shows he shows. If he doesn’t he doesn’t. You don’t need him to show in order to have a great night.
There’s a long bar just inside the door. Behind it is a cross between a bookshelf and a wine rack, alternating shelves of the books being featured this month and the wine being featured—they do a wine-of-the-month club here as well.
I don’t see Max anywhere.
I wave at Martha—she’s one of the owners and always here on Fridays—before I weave my way through the store towards the back, skirting the seating areas as I go. A line of bookshelves wall off the space where the book club meets, hiding it from the front of the store while creating a bit of privacy and keeping the noise down. Just off center there’s a break in the bookcases, creating a doorway to get through. I take one last glance around the store for Max before I head through, reminding myself that I’m a few minutes early and I barely know the guy. He’s probably got better things to do.
Or not.
Because he’s here.
I bite my lip to hide the grin threatening to overtake my entire face as I observe him. He’s sitting on the couch facing the doorway but he hasn’t seen me walk in, his attention focused on the book in his hand. His legs are crossed, one foot on the opposite knee. One hand is holding the book and the other rubs lightly at his forehead as he reads.
Is there anything sexier than a man absorbed in a book? Not to this self-confessed book nerd there isn’t. He’s wearing jeans—a different pair than he had on earlier. These are darker and paired with a casual button-down in light blue,
the sleeves rolled back to his elbows. His dark hair looks styled. I say that because it’s not damp like it was yesterday or tousled like he’d run his hands through it when I saw him earlier today.
I want to rip his clothes off.
He flips a page as I watch him and his eyebrows rise at whatever is on the page. It’s so cute. I wonder what he’s reading? Wait. Oh, shit.
“You’re reading the book,” I blurt out.
He looks up, his face breaking into a smile when he sees me. “Of course I’m reading the book. I’m already on chapter eight.”
“You didn’t need to read the book,” I mumble.
“You told me to read the book,” he says as he stands. He’s got a smirk on his face and he points at me as he says it.
“I think what I said was that it was odd to attend a book club meeting for a book you hadn’t read. I didn’t specifically tell you to read it.”
“Well, at least now I know why you’re so fixated on threesomes.”
“Oh, God.” I cover my eyes with my hand for a second before moving my fingers. “I’m not fixated. I’m not into that. I mean fictionally, yes, I’m into it. Really, really into it.” He laughs and I drop my hand to my side and shrug. “But not really, not in reality,” I add then trail off before meeting his eyes.
“Got it. Just a fantasy. You’re not trying to recruit me into something kinky.” He winks as he stands, picking up flowers I hadn’t noticed lying beside him on the sofa and moving around the coffee table to stop in front of me. “I brought you this,” he says, holding it out. “You didn’t have one earlier.”
I look down and take the flowers, a simple trio of pale pink peonies and a couple sprigs of eucalyptus. The stems are wrapped together with a jute twine. It’s a tiny bridal bouquet—and possibly the sweetest gesture a man’s ever made for me. He couldn’t have bought these at a corner bodega on the way either, they’re too specific. He found a florist to make a last-minute tiny bridal bouquet on a Friday afternoon in the height of wedding season in New York City. All to surprise a woman he barely knows.
“Thank you,” I say softly, taking the flowers from him. I raise them to my nose, using them to hide the smile on my face.
“You’re welcome,” he replies and one of those damn dimples makes an appearance. “But don’t use them to hide that smile of yours. It’s captivating.”
I drop the flowers down a few inches, the petals brushing against the exposed skin above my dress, and smile, twisting my lips after a second and laughing. “Thank you again,” I say, glancing down at the flowers and back to him.
“I’ll get us drinks,” he says, gesturing towards the front. “What do you like?”
I’m tempted to say ‘whatever you like’ but I don’t think he’d take that as an answer, so I ask for a Riesling then sit in the seat he vacated and pick up the paperback he left behind. I need a reminder about what happened within the first eight chapters so I flip it open to take a quick peek.
A lot happened.
He’s turned down the corners on all the best—or worst, depending on how you look at it—parts. I’m turned on remembering those scenes, thinking about him reading those scenes.
Max returns with a bottle and two glasses as the women from my book club begin arriving, so I shut the book and place it on my lap, rubbing my fingers along the paper edge while I watch him pour each of us a glass and set the bottle on the table.
I am so sleeping with this guy if I get the chance.
Like the second I get the chance.
Does it make me a little whorish that I’m planning on getting him naked when I don’t even know his last name? When we haven’t so much as kissed yet?
I don’t care.
He hands me a glass as he sits beside me on the sofa then rests his hand on my knee, drawing his thumb back and forth on my bare skin.
By the time he leans over to mention how great this place is I’m wet and I don’t think he’s even trying to turn me on. He just is.
Which leads me to fantasize about what Max is like when he’s trying. Is he a hair-puller? A dirty talker? Would he want to bend me over and fuck me from behind or would he want to look into my eyes while I straddle him?
God, I hope this is a short meeting.
The rest of the girls arrive, dropping their bags and getting drinks. They’re making small talk about the weather and dawdling and I wish they’d all hurry the fuck up.
As the meeting finally gets underway Max moves his hand from my knee. My skin instantly cools from the loss of his touch and I think I can probably keep my arousal in check for an hour as long as he’s not touching me. But then he moves his arm to the back of the couch, his fingers resting on my shoulder, and I’m not so sure. When he winds a strand of my hair around his finger my nipples harden. He’s not even tugging, not really, but holy fuck, just that tiny amount of having my hair played with is provocative as hell.
As the group starts a discussion about the decisions that lead the female lead to ask her lover to share her with another man, I place my hand on Max’s thigh. I figure it’s only fair to attempt to make him as crazy as he’s making me.
He’s wearing jeans. The well-worn denim is faded in all the right places and it’s soft under my hand. I easily feel the heat of his skin and the contour of his muscles through the fabric and while I’m tempted to take this a lot farther, I’m well aware of where we are and that I don’t want to get kicked out of book club for fondling my date during a meeting.
So I content myself with a light touch and the smallest squeeze of my fingertips.
I’m rewarded with a subtle tug at my hair in return.
A quick glance at the oversized clock hung behind the opposite sofa tells me it’s only ten after eight.
I wonder how far he lives from here and if he has roommates. Please, for the love of me getting laid, let his roommates be out of town. Or at work. Hell, I don’t even care if they’re in jail, please just let them be anywhere but home tonight.
“Lauren?”
Sonia, one of my fellow book club members, is asking me a question. I imagine it’s about the book we’re here to discuss but I don’t know because I was too busy thinking about places I can have sex with Max to listen.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, pulling my hand off of Max’s thigh so I can concentrate. “What were you asking?”
“We’re each sharing our favorite quote from the book. It’s your turn,” she says with a glance at Max.
Right.
I hand the paperback to Max and pull my eReader from my bag. “Just one second,” I mumble as I open my device and click on my highlights. God, I can’t read any of these out loud with Max sitting here. Did I highlight anything that isn’t perverted? No. No, I did not. “You know,” I say, snapping the cover of my eReader closed, “I think I’ll pass this time and let Max read you his favorite instead.”
The thing is I’ve had better ideas because Max doesn’t miss a beat. Not a single one. No, he simply removes his arm from my shoulder and calmly flips the book open. I realize I’ve made a tactical error before he even begins speaking because just watching him handle the book is foreplay for me.
He thumbs through as he looks for a specific page he turned down. He’s not hurried or nervous while he searches and I like the way he handles the book.
Wait, did I really just think that?
I did.
Reading is sexy, my friends. Very, very sexy.
The way his eyes scan the pages while he drags his bottom lip through his teeth. The way his fingers caress the edge of the book. The sound the pages make when he flips them and the almost inaudible whisper of his finger sliding down the page when he finds the section he’s looking for.
Then he begins reading.
It’s a part from the male’s point of view. Where he asks Winnie—the female protagonist—to give him a chance. He promises that she can trust him with whatever her fantasy is and that he’ll be careful with her. That he’ll make it good.
<
br /> I remember thinking at the time that my fantasy was a warm chocolate-chip cookie.
It’s not now.
No, right now it’s a man named Max. A really attractive man named Max with a voice that I could listen to all day long. A man I barely know, yet one who’s brought me flowers and made me laugh. One I suspect looks just as good out of those clothes as he does in them.
I don’t think I’m alone in my fantasies either because when he finishes speaking every member of my group is staring at him. There’s a pause where no one says anything and then finally Debby speaks up and reminds Vilma that it’s her turn to pick a favorite quote.
Max takes my hand during the remainder of the meeting and slowly rubs circles into my skin with his thumb. It’s just my hand but it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like he’s caressing me everywhere. It feels like he’s running his fingertips down my arm and up the inside of my thigh. If feels like my entire body is humming with his touch.
That’s what it feels like.
Or I just have a really overactive sexual imagination.
Either way, when the meeting ends I stand up so fast my eReader hits the floor and I have to swoop down and pick it up. I shove it into my bag and then turn to Max.
“Are you ready?”
“Sure.” He smiles at me and shakes his head a little as though he’s surprised by my antsy demeanor. “I’m ready.”
Chapter 6
“So, did you want to grab dinner?” Max asks once we’re outside on the sidewalk.
“No.” I might be looking at him like he’s an idiot because who in the hell wants to eat right now?
“Okay.” He shrugs. “I’ll walk you home.”
What?
“No, I’ll walk you home,” I snap back.
“You’ll walk me home?” Max grins, dimples in full force. His eyes spark in amusement at my outburst. “How progressive of you.”
“Yeah, I’m sort of revolutionary,” I agree.
“Will you initiate the goodnight kiss as well?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “If you’re lucky.” I glance down the street, anxious to get moving. I start to ask him which way his place is but I don’t get more than ‘which’ out of my mouth before his lips are on mine.
