The Only Rule: The Casual Rule 3

by AC Netzel

  I look down at my hand and back up at Ben. “This junky old thing? Ehh… Fake.”

  He leans back in his chair and his smile fades. Shit. I think I hurt his feelings. It instantly tugs at my heartstrings.

  “But it means the absolute world to me. I never take it off,” I quickly add.

  “Never is a long time.”

  “Yes. It is,” I say, holding his gaze. The corner of his mouth twitches a secret smile and I know I have him back. “So, you’re satisfied with just flings with random girls?”

  “I wouldn’t say random. It’s not like I’d take home some desperate girl who tried to pick me up by asking for the time in Central Park.”

  I grit my teeth then scowl. I’ve told him a million times… THAT WAS A DARE! He cups his fist over his mouth and fakes a cough, covering up a chuckle.

  Pompous ass.

  “So, Julia, you never had casual relationships?” he asks.

  “Hookups and friends-with-benefits isn’t my thing. And as a rule… I never have sex on the first date.”

  “You mentioned that in our phone call earlier.”

  “I mean it,” I tell him sternly.

  “I’m sure you do,” he answers smugly.

  The sexy bastard is mocking me. He doesn’t believe I’ll stick to it.

  “Since you have a rule against committed relationships and I have one against meaningless hookups… I guess there’s no future for us.” As the words leave my mouth, a hollow feeling strikes the pit of my stomach. I know what I said was a joke, but the reality is, I can’t imagine my future without him.

  “I have no expectations about tonight. Let’s just have a good time, on our own terms. We’ll make our own rules.”

  He has one hell of a memory. That was his indecent proposal when we first got together. I said yes then. I’ll say yes now. I’ll say yes to this man every fucking day of the year.

  “Okay, no expectations. We’ll see where tonight leads. At the very least, we can be friends,” I say. This déjà vu conversation brings me back.

  He looks down at the table for a beat, then back up at me, the corner of his mouth lifting up into a half-smile.

  “Okay,” he says softly. “There are benefits to being friends.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “Not the kind of benefits you’re thinking about.”

  “You think you could read my mind?” he asks.

  “Maybe.”

  “What am I thinking?” he challenges, his smoldering gaze leisurely traveling from my eyes to my mouth and landing on my cleavage.

  Damn. Did someone turn up the heat in this place?

  Emilio’s might as well turn off the lights. The electricity crackling between us could probably light up Times Square. We may be playing each other with our poker faces, but it’s impossible to bluff. We know each other’s tells too well.

  Squirming in my seat, I press my thighs together, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. It’s the unspoken words that are the dirtiest. I look back at him and want to say something clever, but I can’t. The only knowledge my brainwaves are sending to my mouth is of the carnal variety.

  He radiates sex appeal. No, he radiates pure sex. Hot, dirty, sheet-clawing, sweaty, go to confession after… sex. There’s no denying it. I am wildly, recklessly, stupidly attracted to this man. And judging by the way he’s undressing me with his eyes, he feels the same about me.

  Marcy shows up with our cheese platter and places it on the table, temporarily breaking the tension simmering between us and saving me from answering his loaded question.

  “The rest of your order will be out shortly,” she tells Ben, ignoring me again.

  I shake my head, briefly closing my eyes. Typical. I redirect my attention to the platter in front of me. I love this dish. It smells incredible: a mix of cheese, brine, garlic, and sweet melon. They make it special for regulars. It’s piled high with Mahon and Manchego cheeses, rosemary flatbread crackers, Marcona almonds, a variety of olives in a small bowl, and fresh cantaloupe chunks wrapped in Serrano ham. It’s as much of a feast for the eyes as it is for the stomach.

  “The look of this alone has aroused my taste buds,” I say, admiring the culinary art in front of us.

  “They say arousal starts in the brain,” he adds, staring at me like he could swallow me whole. I pretend I don’t notice but the truth is I love that he can’t take his eyes off of me. I love that I turn him on. I feel wanted and powerful. It’s a sexy little head trip.

  “Oh? Is your brain aroused?” I ask innocently.

  “Very,” he answers seductively.

  I have to get my aroused mind out of the aroused gutter. I load the small plate in front of me up with the gastronomic delights. If I can’t wrap my lips around Ben, I might as well wrap them around cheese.

  “So Aiden,” I joke, a feeble attempt to cool down the heat between us.

  “Ben,” he interrupts, correcting me again.

  “My bad. You don’t believe in committed relationships?”

  “They’re fine—for other people. Just not my thing.”

  “I suppose marriage is out of the question.”

  “Julia Conti, are you proposing to me? On our first date? I hardly know you.”

  “I was not,” I protest, but I’m interrupted again.

  “We’d have to have sex first. I can’t go in blind. I’d have to try you out, make sure we’re compatible,” he says sarcastically then pops an olive in his mouth.

  “Very funny.” I frown. “What I was trying to ask is… Do you ever intend to settle down? Get married?”

  “No,” he answers brusquely.

  “I get it. You just want a good time, huh?”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “What if you weren’t looking for a relationship and it found you anyway?”

  “I suppose life would get interesting.”

  “Oh? Is it dull now?”

  “Right now? Not in the least.” He smiles tenderly, making me feel… loved. I know he’s playing it cool, but his eyes always give him away. I beam back at him with my stupid, sappy, ‘I love this man to death’ grin.

  I stuff a slice of cheese on a small rosemary cracker in my mouth to buy some time and slow down my libido. This is no easy feat when seated across from the unobtainable fantasy guy who’s mine for the taking.

  “You didn’t take any cantaloupe. Would you like some?” he asks.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He pinches a bite-size cube of melon wrapped in Spanish ham off the platter between his thumb and index finger. “Is this okay?” he asks, holding it up.

  “MmmHmm.” I nod.

  He leans into the table. I bend toward him and open my mouth, awaiting the sweet and salty morsel. He places the melon in my mouth, his thumb brushing lightly across my bottom lip a few times. I freeze at his touch and let out a low whimper.

  He withdraws his finger from my lip, his gaze fixed on my mouth with longing in his eyes. Just from that brief contact, I ache to touch him, to hold him. I miss him so much and he’s sitting right in front of me. I know there are people around us, but right now it feels like we’re the only two in the room.

  “Was that good?” he asks softly.

  “Better than good.”

  “Would you like another?”

  Another opportunity to let him touch me? Hell yeah. “Okay.”

  He pinches another small chunk between his fingers and brings it to my mouth, purposely skimming the cool melon against my bottom lip before placing it in my mouth, momentarily resting his index and middle fingers on my lips. I pucker oh-so-slightly and give him a secret kiss. I know, I’m not supposed to, but I can’t help myself.

  His mouth curves up with amusement at my cunningness.

  “Mmm,” I groan. “That was even better than the last.”

  “Was it?” he asks suggestively.

  “You have no idea.”

  “I think I might.” His gaze focused on my mouth.

  “This melo
n tastes so sweet.”

  “I tasted something today I guarantee was much sweeter.”

  “What did you have?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

  He licks his lips, his gaze smoldering. Oh, I know what he’s referring to—he went down on me earlier this afternoon.

  Heat is radiating off me in rapid waves. My face and the whole rest of my body just blushed.

  Good God, he’s dirty.

  I’m a tingling mess. All the parts that want to do naughty things with this man have awakened and are begging for action. I mean, look at him. He’s so fucking fuckable.

  “Can I take your plates away?” A voice comes from out of nowhere. We both startle and look to the side of the table.

  Damn you, Marcy! Things were just getting interesting.

  He leans back in his chair and grins. “Have you had enough, Julia?”

  Never.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right back with your dinner.” She clears off our plates and the platter while Ben and I stare at each other. He slowly strokes his index finger directly under his bottom lip while I wish I was his finger.

  Clearing his throat, he adjusts himself in his seat. At least I’m not the only one at this table with awakening body parts. He gives me half a nod when our eyes meet.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask.

  He smiles… An unhurried, seductive smile. “More sangria?” He lifts the pitcher, avoiding my question.

  “Sure.” I may be getting a little tipsy from the sangria, but I’m totally drunk off him. I wonder if anyone would notice if I snuck under the table and serviced him.

  He spoons a few pieces of fruit in my glass then pours the wine into it. I take a huge gulp, hoping it will cool me down.

  Fortunately, Marcy shows up again with our dinner, saving me from the embarrassment of Emilio’s management prying my mouth off my date’s dick.

  As always, the food presentation is a work of art. The intricately patterned plates in cobalt blue, honeysuckle yellow, and sage green are as beautiful as the food itself. Marcy finally finishes batting her lashes at my man, lingering a little longer than necessary, and leaves.

  Ben, the gentleman that he is, waits for me to plate my meal first.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” he asks, as he plates his own dinner.

  “I’m an editor at a small publishing house.”

  “Interesting. Do you like it?”

  “I love it. Well, except when obnoxiously handsy authors hit on me.”

  “Really?” he snaps. His smile quickly fades as his body stiffens and his jaw tenses.

  Oh crap, he thinks I’m serious. It’s kind of cute how protective he is.

  I tilt my head and smile sweetly. “No, not really. It’s all very professional.”

  “You would tell me if someone made a pass at you. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I hardly know you. I don’t need a bodyguard. You don’t have to protect me,” I kid, hoping to lighten the sudden dark cloud.

  “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” he asks sharply. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot his hand balling up into a fist.

  He’s fuming. Okay, this is not a subject Ben finds any humor in. I step out of my pretend date role for a quick second. “Yes,” I assure him, reaching my hand across the table and resting it on top of his. “I would tell you then you can beat them up for me.”

  He looks down at my hand then studies me for a quick beat. “I would,” His smile gradually reappears.

  “I have no doubt.” I smile back at him as I pull my hand away. “So, other than beating up people… what do you do?”

  “As coincidence would have it, I’m an author.” He shoots me an amused look.

  “Imagine that,” I say sarcastically. “What have you written?”

  “I’ve published one book about baseball. Another on baseball stadiums is close to print.”

  “What publishing house?”

  “A small one in midtown. I’m thinking of finding a new one. My editor is the crankiest woman I’ve ever met.”

  I chuckle. “You poor man. Maybe you make her cranky. I’m sure she’s excellent at her job.”

  “She’s okay. The only thing keeping me there is she looks good in short skirts.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  He glances at my cleavage. “Yes, it is.” His eyes meet mine. “Maybe we should work together.”

  “As a rule, I don’t date people I work with. We couldn’t see each other socially anymore.”

  “Maybe just this once, you could break that rule.”

  “Maybe I could.” Casually, I stick the tip of my index finger in my mouth and suck it then circle my wet finger around the rim of my wine glass a few times.

  He licks his lips as he watches. His gaze is focused on my finger doing the seduction swirl. I scoot to the edge of my seat and lean forward slightly, allowing him an unobstructed peek down my dress. Now his eyes are glued to my cleavage again. Breast men are so easy to manipulate. After a brief ogle, he redirects his gaze to my face.

  “Your eyes are a stunning shade of emerald green. You’re very pretty,” he states simply. “No, that’s not enough. You’re more than that. You’re breathtaking.”

  “Is that a line?” I ask skeptically.

  “No.”

  “It should be a line. Any girl would fall for it.”

  “I’m not interested in just any girl. And I told it to you because it’s true.”

  This is why this man gets blowjobs.

  “Tell me more about you and your work,” he continues.

  “Really?” I’d think he’d be bored out of his mind with all my work stories by now.

  “Yes, really.”

  I tell him about the nutcase authors I’ve been dealing with since Vivian has been at her conference in California. I complain about our printers and overseas markets. I babble on and on about the great work of our art department.

  All the while, he sits and listens intently, like it’s the first time he’s heard it although I’ve probably told the same stories three times over. I can see in his expression that he’s genuinely interested in what I have to say… what I do and where I’d like to be in my career someday.

  He doesn’t humor me. Well, he does occasionally. But when I speak, not only does he hear me, he listens. He pays attention to every word I say like it’s the most important word in the English language. I laugh to myself when I realize how easily he draws me in.

  For as crazy as it sounds because I know this incredible man loves me unconditionally… I find myself needing him to like me and to want to see me again. And although we’re about to get married, I want him to ask me out on another date.

  I know… crazy.

  I have to snap myself out of this loved up head space and go back to my ‘Dating Julia’ persona before I blurt out how much I adore him.

  “So Brian, other than writing… do you have other interests?”

  “Still Ben.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m on the board of directors for two charitable organizations.”

  “What charities?”

  “One raises funds for Breast Cancer education and research.”

  “That’s admirable.”

  “My grandmother’s best friend was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was only thirty-five with three small kids and a husband. Unfortunately, she didn’t survive. Her death crushed my grandmother. This was years and years ago.”

  I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. I never knew the story behind Ben’s grandmother, Kitty’s, involvement in this charity.

  “That’s so sad.”

  “It is. I’ve met a few families with similar stories. But I’ve met many survivors and their candor about their experiences and courage is inspiring. I was introduced to one woman who was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer. When we talked, she told me she knew she was in for an uphill battle but at least she had odds.” He swallows hard. “
She was exhausted and sick from the chemo but positive for a future. She’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”

  “Do you know how she’s doing now?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her since, but I think of her often.”

  “I hope she beat those odds.”

  “Me too,” he says quietly, looking down at his plate for a moment.

  “What’s the other charity?” I ask.

  “Alzheimer’s Research. My grandfather passed away from the disease.”

  I reach across the table and place my hand on top of his. “I’m sorry.” This isn’t new information, but he always looks sad when he mentions it.

  “Thank you.” He looks down at our hands and gives me a small smile. I smile back when I realize I’m practically holding hands with my date and withdraw back to my side of the table. He pretends he doesn’t notice.

  “Tell me more.”

  “What do you want to know?” he asks.

  “Everything.” And the truth is, I really do want to hear everything. I rest an elbow on the table, my chin in my palm, and listen.

  “Last week I visited a nursing home. We were checking out the new facilities for the Alzheimer’s and dementia wing we helped fund. I came across a resident from the nursing home, Ed. I’ve met him and his wife a few times before. He was sitting alone in the cafeteria. He needs assistance to eat. His hands tremble like someone with Parkinson’s. I didn’t see his wife around and the aide who usually helps assists him was helping another patient get situated with her meal, so I walked over to say hello.

  “He lit up when he saw me. He calls me Charlie. He thinks I’m his son although his real son is well into his fifties and lives somewhere in Delaware. His memories are stuck sometime in his past. So I sat down and we chatted. His words jumble from time to time and occasionally he chooses the wrong one or is at a complete loss for any word at all. I have to pay careful attention to understand what he’s trying to communicate.”

  Ugh. This man.

  I love you, I love you, I love you is all I think but… “Tell me more,” is what I say.

  “I realized he was waiting for his wife to join him. She’s one of the few people he still recognizes. She visits him every day for lunch, but I overheard one of the staff say she was ill and wasn’t coming that day. I didn’t have the heart to tell him.