Manster

by Cari Quinn

  When another woman spun on the street to look back at me, I realized my sweater was still in the cafe. The sun was beating down on the sidewalk, which in turn made the damn concrete a super-sized pizza oven. And I was getting objectified. And pink.

  Lucky me, the Scottish and British blood running through my veins made me freckle and burn with a side of lightly toasted white bread.

  I sighed and turned back to the Pussy Palace. Helluva thing. The front lights were off. Evidently, Mz. Kitten wasn’t opening up for the rest of the day. On a Monday, no less.

  I sneaked around the side of the building so I wasn’t right on the strip. Objectification was one thing, but I could still get recognized. These days, I might get noticed more for my Hugo Boss suits than for my former racing uniform, but I was a six-foot-four ginger on top of it all. Not exactly easy to blend in with the crowd.

  The closer I got to Piper’s side door, the louder the music became. The catchy pop sound of a female singer pulsed from the windows. She must’ve had it at top volume.

  At first, I didn’t see her. The chairs were upside down on tables in the cafe part and the comfy couches were shoved against one wall. Just as Kelly Clarkson belted out the chorus to her newest song, Piper Lockwood slid across the floor in a weird pair of shoes that looked like dust mops attached to her feet.

  She was holding a huge mop in the same material and singing along as she undulated her hips in a natural rhythm that made my damn dick want to dance along.

  Holy shit. Where did that come from?

  I wouldn’t have called her awkward, but she wasn’t exactly the most overtly feminine woman I’d come across. Drugstore makeup and low-end jewelry that had probably been bought from a street fair adorned her neck and fingers. But hell, she had flowing hips that would do Shakira proud.

  She was tiny, but under her frumpy clothes she had an ass that made my mouth water.

  Nope. I so shouldn’t be looking at that ass.

  She swung around as the song ended and another song came on that I didn’t know. It had a distinct Beatles flavor that had her moving her shoulders in a way that rivaled professional dancers on stage.

  Not the kind of dancers that ran a cat cafe. In fact, more like a real Pussy Palace.

  Don’t start thinking about G-strings again.

  Fact was, I couldn’t have been more intrigued by Piper if she’d been practically naked. Okay, well, maybe not practically naked. That had to be something. But watching her lose herself in the music was erotic in unexpected ways.

  She rested the handle of the mop against her shoulder as she lifted her hands over her head and pulled her hair out of its messy bun. Rich, chocolate waves tumbled down her back nearly to her waist.

  Sweet fuck.

  Thick, and heavy with volume that most women would show off and pay thousands for, and she’d been hiding it with a ragged rubber band she snapped onto her wrist.

  The lyrics screamed out that she was a good girl. Then they shifted into a simple refrain about her feeling so good.

  Damn if I didn’t agree. Just watching her was making me feel better than I’d felt in weeks.

  The song slowed down again and she went back to dancing with the handle and pushing dust and debris into piles at the edge of the cafe. She swung around and spotted me in the window. She stopped instantly and her huge brown eyes widened.

  In a nanosecond, she went from sexy and carefree to reserved and buttoned-down. She scraped her hair back into a tail and crossed to the side door where I was totally being a creeper.

  And I didn’t even have a sweater to hide my reaction to her. Perfect.

  Guess I would have to go with straight up ignorance about the hard-on knocking against my zipper and hope she didn’t notice.

  Or maybe I should hope that she did.

  3

  Piper

  There was sweat and dust sticking to every part of me and now I had that man back here? Why?

  And why was he staring at me?

  Wyatt wasn’t some creeper stalker-type, was he? I mean, I attracted crazy people, but not usually to that end. In fact, it was usually the other way around. I was more likely to be ghosted by a guy than have him focus on me.

  He crossed his arms over his massive chest and gave me that arched brow thing he’d perfected in front of the mirror or something.

  I took a step forward and inwardly groaned. I had my microfiber shoes on. They were the perfect footwear for dry mopping. In reality, I looked even more like a child with them strapped to my striped socks.

  God, kill me.

  “Gonna let me in, kitten?”

  “No.”

  His smirk slid into a full-fledged grin. “I got a show. At least I should be able to get my cup signed or something.”

  “You are incorrigible.” But I unlocked the bolt and opened the door.

  He leaned into the doorframe. “Why didn’t we play those games earlier? I didn’t know you could move like that.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Wyatt?”

  “Mister? I thought we were family.” He brushed by me and that damn spicy scent of his made me want to follow him like he was nutmeg-laced hot chocolate. Maybe sip him like one too.

  And no.

  Don’t even go there.

  “We are not family.”

  “Good thing.” He went right for my coffee station. And what the heck did that mean? I didn’t want to be related to him, but why didn’t he want us to be family? And why did I care? What the hell was wrong with me?

  “Any more of that heroin-level hickory coffee left?” He gave me a hopeful look.

  “You drank it all.” I sighed. “I can put on another though.”

  “Would you?”

  “Should I get you a thermos to go?”

  “Pushing me out the door, kitten?”

  Yes. Probably rude to say so. I just ignored him instead. “Why are you here anyway?”

  “You certainly don’t pull any punches.”

  “My dad taught me not to.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t mean that literally.”

  I shrugged. “It’s the truth.” I rounded the counter to my grinder and dumped in a double batch of beans. Maybe if I made him extra, he’d leave faster.

  “Well, if I had a daughter I’d teach her to follow through with a punch.” He frowned. “Not that I’ll have kids.” He cleared his throat. “How did we get on this topic?”

  “I have no earthly idea.” I flipped on the grinder as he was opening his mouth. Probably to make another smart ass comment.

  He crossed to me and did a double step. “Oh, Jesus. Not you again.”

  Maya’s plaintiff yowl overrode even the grinder. I pressed my lips together as he tried to dislodge her from climbing up his pants. I flipped off the huge stainless steel machine. “She likes you.”

  “Great.”

  “Maya doesn’t like anyone. Including me and I feed her and scoop her crap.”

  “Lovely.” He winced. “Are you sure there aren’t needles in between her toes?”

  “No, she keeps them nice and sharp on her scratching posts.” I poured the ground coffee into a French Press and slowly poured in hot water.

  His gaze drifted around the room. The door between the cat room and the cafe was open, but most of the cats were settled in for their afternoon naps. The visitors had tired them out. All except Maya.

  I poured a mug for him and put the rest in one of my double walled thermoses. The words “Careful, hot pussy” and my Pussy Palace logo covered the blue container. It was my second order of the tumblers.

  The Strip enjoyed my sense of humor. I’d definitely found my people.

  I set the mug on the counter. “Hickory for you, sir.”

  “Oh, I like the sir part.”

  “You would.”

  He lifted the mug and sniffed at it with the darkest groan I’d ever heard outside of a porno. Sweet flipping hell.

  I cleared my throat. “Didn’t you start the day wearing, you k
now, more clothes?”

  He grinned over the lip of his mug. “Noticed, did you?” he asked between gulps. Seriously, did the guy have any pain receptors? Even I drank coffee slower and java consumption was pretty much imprinted in my DNA.

  “Is there a reason for your half-dressed return?”

  “You are touchy. Got a hot date?”

  Only with my workshop and the new playground I’m creating.

  But I didn’t say that. I had a special order from a Chinese cat cafe who wanted one of my cat cubby walls. I’d built one for a place in Taiwan last month and the cafe video they streamed had gone viral.

  I’d patented the set-up and sold it to a few companies, but this was one of the first cat cafes and they wanted something special. They’d also given me an obscene amount of money to do it, so I felt compelled to work on it every extra hour I had.

  Mondays were always slow in the cafe since we did a majority of our business on the weekend. I was generally closed anyway, but Callie would always be a special case. For me and obviously for so many.

  Just the thought of that many people in my life was daunting.

  And here I was trading barbs with a manster-sized rockstar who had nothing in common with a tomboy who probably knew how to use more power tools than he did.

  Not to mention that I wasn’t sure how long I could look at his shoulders and ridiculously defined arms without mopping the floor with my own drool. At least I was wearing the correct equipment.

  And I was betting he came equipped with the right tool for the job too.

  Yeah. No.

  Nope.

  Mind out of the gutter, girl.

  My face flushed from the roots of my hair right down my chest. Not that he could see that part, but believe me, I knew. And I was suddenly even warmer than I was a few minutes ago and that was saying something.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, but you want to share?”

  I blinked out of my thoughts. I was used to the chatter in my head. Getting it out of my mouth was the problem. “Why are you here?”

  “Again with that. Look, kitten, I forgot my sweater so I came back in.”

  “Stop calling me kitten.”

  The quick slash of his bright white teeth bottomed out all the hormonal butterflies nesting in my belly. He had dimples. Not the traditional kind. No, these were the kind that only showed up when he was really smiling.

  Smiling at me of all people.

  How was this my life right now?

  “And you make exceptional coffee. I’ve made time for a woman for far less.”

  “Oh, lucky me.”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “You don’t make it easy to flirt.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  He gave a half-shrug. “Sorta. I wasn’t really trying.” He glanced down at his feet. “I swear, cat.”

  “Maya,” I reminded him.

  He snorted. “Menace, more like.”

  “It’s the weirdest thing.” I leaned forward to peer over the edge of the counter. The cat was winding herself around Wyatt’s ankles. “She has two modes—indifferent and pissed. This is so new.”

  He leaned his hip on the counter. Yes, hip—he was that tall. Talk about disconcerting. “You’re not going to deter me from our conversation.”

  I huffed out a breath. How the hell was I supposed to know if a guy was just being nice, or if he was actually flirting? And with a guy like Wyatt, wasn’t that just as much a part of him as breathing? Maybe?

  I was so confused.

  “You’d know it if I was flirting, kitten.”

  “Not likely,” I muttered. Which was half my problem. By the time I figured out a guy was interested in me, he was halfway out the door. Then I tried too hard and whoops, there he went.

  Story of my life.

  Everyone left.

  He stood up straighter and set his mug down. “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” I busied myself with cleaning up, then dumped the used grinds in my compost bin.

  “Oh, that was definitely something.”

  “Nothing you need to concern yourself over, how’s that?” Even though part of me wondered. Could I finally get out of this rut if I had a man like Hudson Wyatt giving me tips on the opposite sex? Based on the things I’d read about him—most notably in the glitz and glitter pages as I liked to call them, aka the entertainment magazines and blogs—he was a notorious party guy. He hung out with a different girl every day of the week.

  Actually, it was pretty impressive just how many women could be seen in his company. Wouldn’t he eventually have to take out the same girl at least a few times? But based on the parties and general crazy that lived in Los Angeles and West Hollywood, it probably made sense.

  Being on the Sunset Strip meant I heard a little bit about a lot of things. I had everyday customers from the colleges and clubs in the area, then other days I got overflow from one of the hot-ticket bistros down the block.

  And with the trendy came the rich, famous, and internet famous. Everyone wanted to be seen at the new fusion restaurant. And when they couldn’t get in, they didn’t like to look like they were turned away. Instead they tried to infuse their fame into other places to show they’d deemed them interesting enough to be talked about.

  Levi’s shop had hit the latest food journals thanks to one of the Instagram-famous types. And voila, he instantly had an influx of people which in turn had them overflowing into my coffee shop. That had lasted a few weeks and my sales had been awesome, then it went back to business as usual. Right now, we both were in an ebb season. While Levi was hustling, I took it as a sign to enjoy some catching up time.

  Handily, this was the perfect time to actually do a little self-help project. If only I could spit it out and ask Wyatt.

  I pulled out the all-natural lemon-based cleaner I used and sprayed down the counter.

  He lifted his mug with a frown. “You poison my coffee and I make you start over.”

  I pushed the thermos his way. “I told you I was making you extra.”

  He snatched the thermos and unscrewed the top to take a long sniff. “Oh, man. Who needs to eat when you have something this divine in the world?”

  I grinned up at him. “Glad you like it.”

  “I told you earlier I was ready to marry you—er, your coffee.”

  My smile slipped. “Of course.” Because me and forever wasn’t a thing anyone thought about. Even my dad had been quick to get me out of our house and into college. He didn’t know what to do with a teenager to begin with, let alone one who didn’t know how to act around anyone because I was too interested in playing with cats and building cat stuff.

  Wyatt screwed the top back on and set the thermos aside before covering my hand with his own. Was this guy for real? His hand was like three of mine. Jesus. Did that mean he was proportional in every way?

  I glanced at his thumb and forefinger. I remembered something from discussions with the girls at our lunch table in high school. His finger span was huge.

  Like, seriously, maybe I needed to rethink the wild idea brewing in my head.

  Flirting didn’t mean I had to get naked with him.

  Even if I really wanted to see what else was under the ribbed white tank he was wearing. Not that it left much to the imagination, including the map of freckles crawling over his shoulders and under the cotton. He didn’t have a lot of hair, but he had enough to make me curious.

  Dangerously curious.

  With his other hand, he flicked a lock of the crazy thick hair that had slipped out of my hair tie. “I swear there’s a whole conversation going on up there.”

  I curled my fingers under his and tugged.

  He tightened his hold. “You’re fucking gorgeous and whatever you’ve got to say, you should spit it out.

  It wasn’t going to get any easier if I stewed on it. Best to just ask and get it over with. If he said no, I’d handle it. Maturely. With the barest minimum of
thoughts of death and dismemberment.

  His, of course.

  “Can you teach me how to be a girl?”

  His eyebrows shot up and his grip loosened, then he stumbled back a step. “Jesus, cat.” Maya darted away from him and then immediately back to his side. He frowned down at her, then back up at me. “What?”

  I rushed around the counter. Well, that hadn’t come out right. “I know how to be a girl, but I don’t know how to do the flirting thing. Or pick up on cues. That kind of thing. Like, right now, I totally didn’t get you were flirting.”

  He pushed his fingers through his hair and his sunglasses almost fell off the top of his head. “I told you that you’d know if I was flirting. So if you missed it, I wasn’t.”

  “You weren’t? Not even a little?”

  He was looking increasingly uncomfortable. Which both pleased and vexed me. I liked being able to knock him off-guard. But it was hard to believe I actually could.

  “Not exactly.”

  “So you were just being nice? Okay, I get it. Callie likes you, so you can’t be a totally self-absorbed jerk.”

  “Totally helping your cause, kitten.”

  “See, that right there. It's annoying and yet…”

  What? Was I supposed to like that he had given me a pet name? Wasn’t my name good enough? That was the part I didn’t get. Was it supposed to be endearing? Even if that wasn’t exactly the emotion that I felt.

  “You keep doing it knowing that it annoys me,” I finished.

  “It’s not really something you can explain.” He put his sunglasses on the counter as he blew out a breath. “This is fucking weird.”

  I inched forward until his scent teased my nose. Considering I smelled coffee all day, I would’ve guessed my olfactory senses were non-existent, but evidently, that wasn’t the case. He was wearing the sort of cologne that made me want to get closer. “Well, you know what to tell me to watch for when it comes to cues from guys, right? I mean, you’re out there. Mingling and such. You’re a serial dater and reasonably attractive, so you must get some play.” I pulled a hank of my ponytail forward and twirled it around my finger. It was better than touching him. Because I sort of wanted to.