by Watson, Lucy
Ben slides in behind the wheel, opens a movie-size bag of peanut M&M’s, throws back a handful, and starts the truck. I make sure my voice sounds light and easy while I talk to Derek, wanting Ben to know his plan failed.
“I’ll be at your place around seven.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I like the walk.”
“I like to pick you up.”
“You’re getting awfully bossy these days.”
His laugh soothes my soul and I can’t help but smile.
“Fine. Walk. See you at seven,” he concedes.
“See you then. Bye.”
I disconnect the call and turn to Ben, watching him merge with traffic while bringing the yellow bag to his mouth, shaking in the candy-coated chocolatey goodness, like he didn’t just try to destroy my life.
When I look back at most of the stupid things I’ve done, they’re usually preceded by two words. Two words which are currently sitting on the tip of my tongue. Fuck it.
Clicking off the seatbelt, I reach over and snatch the bag of peanut M&M’s from his hand, with my cat-like reflexes, and sit back in my seat.
He slowly looks over at me like I’ve lost my mind. I guess not many people come between him and his peanut M&M’s and by the scowl on his face I can see why.
I scoot against my door, out of arm’s reach, and start to eat them one-by-one, tauntingly, feeling like that dancing gopher in Caddyshack.
“Stop. Eating. My. M&M’s,” he growls, looking from me to the road.
“You mean these M&M’s?” I pop in a green one, holding his eyes while I smile. “Here’s an idea…” I take out a red one, using it as a pointer as my fake smile drops. “You apologize to my cousin for accidentally sending him a picture of us in bed, and I’ll give you back your precious candy.”
“Your cousin,” he says flatly, like I’m full of shit.
“Yep. I know you were hoping for something a bit more dramatic. Sorry, your plan didn’t work out, sweetheart.”
I pop the red one into my mouth, savoring the sweet taste of chocolate mixed with victory.
“It worked out just fine, sweetheart.”
“Umm… Like I said, he’s my cousin, not my boyfriend.” I shrug. “So besides an awkward conversation, no harm done.”
“Your cousin wants to fuck you,” he states so casually like we’re discussing the weather, it takes a few seconds for his words to hit, but when they do…
My face scrunches. “What? That’s sick.”
“Tell me about it,” he chuckles.
“Derek’s like a brother to me. Uh, he would never…he doesn’t look at me that way,” I stammer.
“Made it pretty fucking clear you’re off-limits.” He turns to me. “And, yes, he does look at you that way.”
“He’s protective of me like a brother, you idiot.” I hate that he’s making me doubt another relationship.
“Right.”
“Fuck you,” I bite out. I’m not a huge out loud swearer, so it sounds weird coming out of my mouth.
“I’ll pass,” he says, without missing a beat, while casually changing lanes.
“Oh my god, I get it. You’re not interested. The feeling’s mutual. Move on,” I say on an exaggerated over-it-exhale.
I know Derek isn’t interested in me like that either, but the fact Ben’s implying there’s some Game of Thrones Cersei-and-Jamie shit going on between us puts me on serious defense. The fact that Mrs. Baker also suggested I go hillbilly-love on him has me itching to clarify…
“Derek and I are step-cousins, so technically we aren’t related, but he’s like blood. I’ve known him since I was a kid, so...” I have no idea how to finish this sentence, so I leave it hanging.
We drive past Mrs. Baker’s house, and for once her company doesn’t seem so bad.
“Whatever you say, Shortcake.”
I add the only nickname I sort of liked to the growing list of things Ben’s ruined.
“Don’t call me that.” I take an overflowing handful of his M&M’s and shove them into my mouth, chewing angrily as he turns onto the gravel drive leading home.
He looks over, his eyes narrow as I chew.
“You’re starting to piss me off.”
“You don’t say?” I taunt, around a mouthful of chocolate and peanuts, getting ready to shovel in some more.
He holds his hand out. “Give it.”
The steel in his voice has me itching to hand it over, but I hold tight. This is more than just a bag of M&Ms. This is war.
Hello, Iceman. It’s me, Maverick.
“Not gonna happen,” I vow.
“Is that right?” he challenges while coming to a stop in front of the garage.
“Yep.”
I try to push open the door, but it’s still locked. Ben’s door slams shut, the force of it rocking the truck.
Ooh, looks like somebody’s got their panties in a bunch.
I grin and pull up on the old-style lock with sticky fingers, push open the door, securing my purse, and readjusting my death-grip on Ben’s candy, then slide to the edge of the seat.
Just as I get ready to jump down, I’m met with a towering wall of Ben. He braces his hands on each side of the doorframe and leans down, his eyes darkening.
“I think you got something that belongs to me.” His voice is low and rough. His solid thighs brush my knees as he steps closer, sending a tingle of awareness through my lower stomach.
He’s trying to throw me off with his hard muscles and man-scent. Luckily, I’ve recently become immune to both.
I tighten my death-grip on the yellow bag and bring it against my chest. The only way he’s getting this bag is to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.
It’s my turn to lean in close, showing him just how unaffected I am by his display. Maybe I’m a little rusty, but two can play this game.
Holding his gaze, I draw my words out. “Trust me, nothing I have will ever be yours, Benjamin Crawford.” I’m not sure why I say his full name, but I do.
His eyes narrow at my provocation.
A deep sound vibrates from low in his throat. Did he just growl? Before I can think too much about being growled at, he drops his hands from the frame and places them on either side of me, effectively caging me in.
“You sure about that?” he asks.
He obviously thinks he can throw me off with his manly closeness. Ha! I got news for you, buddy, you don’t—
A familiar yearning stirs low in my belly. No! Turns out my body is a traitorous bastard. I picture Braveheart atop his horse rallying against my hormones. You will never take our freedom!
“I’m sure.” I nod, holding his brown eyes.
“Yeah?” His mouth dips closer to mine.
He’s not touching me, but I can feel him everywhere.
“Yeah,” I say on a shaky breath. Wait was the question?
He inches closer. His piercing stare makes my pulse fly. I bite my lip to keep from saying something stupid.
In the next breath, his face changes. First his eyes crinkle around the edges. Then the corner of his lip quirks up, followed by a deep throaty chuckle that vibrates along my skin.
Wait. What?
He stands back with a smug smirk, holding the bag. Holding the bag! I glance at my empty hands, my head dizzy with anger, my body still humming with residual sexual energy.
He wasn’t going to kiss me. It was a goddam checkmate.
His gloating gaze holds mine while he throws back a few broken M&M’s, further making his point.
Now he’s ruined chocolate for me.
I freaking loved chocolate.
I hop down from the truck, not really feeling my legs, but I stay standing, so that’s a bonus.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” I growl.
He raises a single brow, like what sort of crazy shit is she going to spew now.
He has no idea.
I take a step forward. “I know you think you’re god’s gift.” I flick my hand
over him. “Or whatever, but you’re not.”
“God’s gift?” he says with a gleam in his eyes.
“My reaction has absolutely nothing to do with you.”
“What reaction would that be?” He smirks.
I ignore that and continue, “You could have been Billy Bob Thornton in that movie where he grunts and eats fries with mustard… you know the one.”
What the hell was the name of that movie?
“Got no clue what you’re talking about,” he says clearly amused.
“The point is, I would’ve been all over him because my hormones are obviously deranged due to sex deprivation—”
“Sex deprivation,” he repeats his grin widening.
Note to self: See how much it costs to get your jaw wired shut.
“Therefore, it’s not you, it’s me.”
He cracks a cocksure grin. “It’s me.”
“It’s not you,” I grit out.
“Whatever you say.”
I crowd his space, raising my chin. “I’m gonna take care of my little situation, and then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
He motions to something over my shoulder. “You’re in luck.”
I turn my head to see a short, balding man with serious plumber’s crack pulling a ladder from the back of a blue van that reads Earl’s Electronics in bright-yellow writing.
When the hell did he get here?
The guy, who I’m guessing is here to install the security cameras, huffs the ladder onto his shoulder, his pants inching dangerously low.
I turn back to Ben, school my expression, and shrug. “He’s probably taken. All the good ones are.”
“You always have your cousin.”
“You’re such a prick.”
I spin on my heels, having reached my limit of Ben (plus, the need to pee has returned full force), and stomp to the house.
“We got shit to unload, woman!” he calls out after me.
I hold up my hand and flip him off without a backward glance. It feels cool as shit. Like slow-motion-bombs-exploding-in-the-background cool as shit.
Until I hear him laugh.
Bastard.
8
I’m Your Huckleberry
It turns out Earl, who’s originally from Poteau, Oklahoma, is, in fact, taken. Jeanine, his wife of thirty years next month, has big blue eyes like mine, which was the first thing he noticed about her. The second thing he noticed was her laugh. She has a great laugh.
I learned all this in the time it took him to set up his ladder to install the first camera.
Also turns out Earl is a talker. With his slow methodical drawl, it’s a miracle I made it to the bathroom in time.
You know it’s a bad day when peeing your pants in front of a stranger doesn’t sound so bad. I guess, after spending the day with a guy you hate, who hates you back, and thinks your family motto is, Incest is Best, Put Your Cousin to the Test—not much does.
Walking from the bathroom to my room, my bladder thankfully empty, I tell myself I’m just going to lie down and rest my eyes for a bit. I’m too tired to even be bothered by the fact Ben made the bed and straightened up my room.
I crawl to the pillow and listen to the slow cadence of Earl chatting with him, which should buy me a few minutes—or a few hours—to pull myself together.
I’d like to say I rested for a few minutes, changed into some clothes I wouldn’t mind getting ruined, and showed Ben a thing or two about my mad-painting skills, but instead, I fell asleep, for, if you go by the amount of drool on my pillow, quite a while.
I sit up. My mouth feels bone-dry and tastes like a chocolate-covered dead rat. I move the mop of hair out of my face and finish off the bottle of water from the nightstand, not caring it’s not mine.
I jump when the door pushes open, and Ben walks in.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing from the bed, pointing to the door, water dripping off my chin. “You can’t just walk in here like that.”
He reaches for his discarded jeans, not sparing me a glance, and grabs his wallet from his faded back pocket.
I look to the sweats and even rattier T-shirt he’s wearing, and the hair on my arms stands tall.
“You changed in here while I was sleeping?” I ask incredulously, letting his escalating creep-factor shine through in my voice.
He opens his wallet, pulling out some cash. “Also put the first coat on the living room and taped off the den while you were sleeping.” He raises his brows, then tosses his jeans and wallet onto my bed, his eyes challenging, making a point: My bed. My room. My house. My rules.
Behind him, a well-built man with a worn-out baseball cap fills the doorway. His head is turned down as he texts, so I can’t see his face.
“Open a bar, Win… It’ll be fun.” He scoffs to himself as he texts. “Luke didn’t show for his shift, so I gotta head back to the bar,” he says, looking up from his phone. Surprise flashes in his hazel eyes when he sees me. “Oh, hey, sorry to interrupt.” The half-grin he shoots Ben says he’s really not.
I’ve only seen that exact combination of rugged boyish charm on one man: Chris Pratt. And I do love me some Star Lord, so my smile is genuine when his eyes meet mine.
Do I fix my hair when he looks back to Ben? Yep.
“You’re not interrupting,” Ben says a bit too gruffly.
The Star Lord guy’s smile widens while he gives Ben a pointed look, who after a long pause takes the hint and reluctantly introduces us. “Emelia this is Winnie.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more, my name coming out of Ben’s mouth or that his friend’s name is Winnie.
Winnie steps past Ben and extends his hand for me to shake. “Nice to meet you, Emelia.” The corners of his hazel eyes crinkle slightly as he smiles, which adds to his charm. I can’t help but think that he’s the friend of Ben’s who visited Rose.
“Nice to meet you, too, uh, Winnie.”
He shoots me a panty-melting half smile. “It’s Winston but my friends and future wives call me Win. Only assholes call me Winnie.” He glances at Ben and then shoots me a playful wink.
“Future wives, huh?” I grin, my brows raised. “Planning to have a lot of those?” Am I trying to piss Ben off by bantering with his friend? Yep. And by the hard set of his jaw and death glare he’s shooting my way, it’s working.
Winston glances back at Ben with a grin. “Didn’t mention she was gorgeous. Guess it slipped your mind.”
There’s nothing that feels quite as good as receiving a compliment in front of someone who hates you.
Suck it, asshole.
I see Ben’s about to say something—probably how he finds me disgusting—so I beat him to it. “I’m not really his type.” I shrug.
Winston barks out a laugh, glancing to Ben, then back to me. “Right.”
My heart flutters as I fall a little in love with Ben’s friend.
Ben clears his throat. “Thanks for bringing dinner.” He holds out some money for Winston to take. “For the food,” he tacks on when Winston doesn’t move to take it.
“Don’t be a dick,” Winston says while holding out his hand for me to retake. I place my hand in his while saying a silent prayer that he’s my Richard Gere.
He brings my hand to his lips. “Milady,” he says, giving my hand a soft gallant kiss, his eyes holding mine. The glint in them sends a happy spark through my body.
Ben scoffs. I won’t let him ruin my Prince Charming moment, or whatever this is.
“Milord,” I say before I can stop myself, which earns me an I-want-to-get-to-know-you-better smile.
He stands and steps to Ben. They’re the same height, but Ben’s got a few pounds of muscle on him.
“The gang’s expecting you at the bar tonight, so don’t be an asshole.”
Good luck with that.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t show, I’m gonna come back and kick your ass.” Winston grins and adds, “For the second time.”
“That was th
ird grade.” Ben says, with a playful spark breaking through his dark eyes.
“And before seven years of Krav Maga.” Winston holds up his fists. “Had to register these bad boys.”
Ben shakes his head at Winston’s display, a small smile cracking his stoic expression. “Such a fucking idiot.”
“You love me,” Winston teases as he walks to the door, turning back to me. “If you’re free, you should come tonight.”
I glance to Ben, who gives me a look that almost has me saying yes, just to spite him. He’s lucky I’d rather pluck out my eyelashes one-by-one than hang-out with him any longer than I have to.
“Can’t tonight, sorry.”
“Don’t tell me you have a date?” Winston puts his hand over his heart in mock-disappointment.
“Just dinner with my cousin.”
I glance at Ben, knowing I left myself wide open for him to say something. His brow raises to let me know he’s tempted.
“You guys should stop by for drinks. I’ll make you something special,” Winston says.
Even the thought of Star Lord mixing a “special” drink for me isn’t enough to endure a night of Ben, but Ben doesn’t have to know that.
“Maybe. What’s the name of your place?”
“Huckleberry’s in Palo Alto.”
“Huckleberry? As in Huckleberry Finn?”
“No, it’s from the movie Tombstone,” Winston says.
“Nobody’s seen that movie,” Ben exhales with a shake of his head.
You don’t say…
“‘I’m your Huckleberry,’” I say to Winston with a bright smile.
Surprise flashes in his hazel eyes before a slow grin spreads across his boyish face.
“Great,” Ben groans.
“You’ve seen Tombstone?” Winston asks, ignoring Ben, his voice hopeful.
Only about a hundred times.
“Once or twice,” I answer with a sly grin.
Winston leans his shoulder on the door frame, studies me for a moment, then says in a spot-on Southern drawl, “‘My fights not with you Holliday.’” He tips the brim of his baseball cap like it’s a cowboy hat.
“‘I beg to differ, sir,’” I say in my best Val Kilmer, trying to keep a straight face. “‘We started a game we never got to finish.’” A bittersweet smile breaks free.
