Up in Smoke, page 2
Just kidding! It’s all him.
“You came in here expecting your favorite dessert.” I hear it clearer now. New York, maybe. “I haven’t taken a bite yet.”
Tessa pours my coffee and pushes it toward me with an eyebrow tilt of her own.
“I really couldn’t.” I look at my friend, who should be offering to officially split it with a knife and two separate plates, but strangely … isn’t.
Matchmaker instincts are overriding server ones, I assume.
I grab a Splenda packet from the caddy and use the adding and stirring time to contemplate my next move. Refusing to acknowledge his offer would be rude. This way, he can have it back with a bite taken out of it and we can return to our respective corners, pie enemies once more.
“How about I take a small bite?”
A fork appears—the ever so helpful Tessa again—and five seconds later my taste buds are dancing to the tune of tart fruit and buttery pie crust. I must have moaned on my way to Heaven because when I come back to earth, Pie Guy is staring at me.
“Well, that was worth it.”
I push the pie back to him. “Your turn.”
Two
Roman
I’d been stood up and was forced to share my pie. Yet somehow the night has improved.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still ticked off about my lack of a date. My co-worker and former friend, Luke, spent weeks that felt like years trying to talk me into meeting up with a friend of his wife’s at the bar around the corner. Or maybe she was a friend of a friend of his wife’s. Whatever she was, “present” wasn’t another one of her attributes (hence the former friend label because Luke’s going to fucking hear it when I see him next).
Between my job and my kid, I don’t have time for dating. And I certainly don’t have time for dates that are no-shows.
But I do have time for pie.
After waiting for a fruitless hour at the bar, I decided to walk around Andersonville on Chicago’s Northside, a cute neighborhood of bars, at least three dog groomers, and one good-looking diner tucked off the main drag on a quiet side street. I’d passed it a few times when I varied up the route on my morning run. Not a great place for a business but I had to admit I’m glad it’s low key.
I’m even more glad it no longer is. Because she walked into it.
The woman who lusted after my pie is tall, about five-ten in flat-heeled shoes, with pale skin, almost translucent except for the freckles dotting it like a map to destinations sexy. Auburn red waves fall in loose curls over her shoulders, which are bare except for the narrow straps of her green dress. I wouldn’t call it overly sexy but she is hella sexy in it—it hugs her curves in a way I haven’t noticed on any woman in years.
When Luke said it was time to get out of my rut, I resisted. Especially as (a) I’d known him for all of three months so where the hell did he get off? And (b) the fucker was right and that chapped my ass more than anything. I don’t like to be pushed. My sister Chiara would say I’m stubborn to the point of it getting in the way of life. That would be the sister who got all the drama genes, so she’s a fan of pointing out my flaws.
I’m trying to be less stubborn and more open-minded to new things. Which is why I’m sitting in a diner, sharing pie with a beautiful freckled stranger.
“Your turn.” She pushes the pie back.
I really should let her have the whole thing. I mean, what are we going to do? Nibble on the sides of the slice until our forks meet in the middle like something out of Disney?
“You can finish it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She smiles and I realize I should accept this for the gift it is.
It’s more than pie. It’s connection.
I fork a sliver off the slice, decide it isn’t enough to get a decent taste, and carve out a bigger bite. Once in my mouth, I try not to get too excited about it but damn, that’s mighty fine pie.
“Kind of wish I hadn’t offered to share it now,” I say once I finish chewing. “Second worst decision of my life.”
“Oh, now I need to know.” She sections off a small piece and holds it close to her mouth, waiting for me to fulfill the promise of that cryptic statement.
“Maybe after a few more bites. I hardly know you.”
Another killer smile precedes the wrap of her lips around the fork. Her mouth looks as sweet as the treat in it, or maybe it’s just too long since the last time I’ve gotten laid. The way this woman is eating the pie is about as close to sex as I’ve come in a while.
The fork tines slide from her mouth slowly as she makes sure she didn’t miss a crumb. Maybe she’s doing it to tease me. Intentional or not, it’s working.
My turn.
“Stood up, huh?”
I nod. No idea what possessed me to share that with the server but she was kind of chatty when I arrived and I blurted it out, probably to justify why I was sitting single at a diner counter at 9:15 on a Tuesday night.
“Is that your worst decision? To go on a date with this rude, unfeeling individual?”
I shake my head. Take a bite. Finish chewing.
She watches my mouth. Nice to know I’m not the only one with the oral fixation.
“You’re not getting my worst decision out of me that easily.”
“Worth a shot. Did your date even text you?”
I check my phone. Just a flurry of messages from Chiara, each more dramatic and intrusive than the last.
How’s it going?
Then thirty minutes later. Must be getting along if you’re still out and not responding.
Twenty minutes after that. Should I wait up? Not wait up?
Ten minutes ago. Did you bring enough condoms?
She will be so disappointed, though I’m not. Because if it had gone well, I wouldn’t have stopped in here and had the perfect slice of pie.
“Nope.” Your turn. I push the plate toward her.
“Chatty, aren’t you?”
“Not as much as you.” I don’t mean it to sound like a dig. It’s a reflex because in truth, I’m enjoying the conversation even if I’m not contributing to it much. “Tell me where you were before you got here.”
“Where I was? Oh, that’s a long story.”
I want to hear it but it already sounds too invasive. “Out with friends?”
She assesses me, and I can’t tell if she’s glad I reeled in the conversation from an enquiry about her life to this point to the more manageable “why are you dressed up and looking so damn fine?”
“Yeah, a celebration. But my buddies wanted to club-hop and I’m feeling a bit old for that scene.”
“There comes a time when we all feel we’ve aged out of the discotheques.”
Her smile acknowledges that as cute. Never knew I had it in me, to be honest, given my rustiness. She takes another bite. “Anyway, I left the youngsters to it and came to get me some pie.”
“And I almost ruined it.”
“No, not ruined.” A couple of spots of color flag her cheeks and make me warm inside. Not ruined. She’s enjoying the conversation as much as me.
“What were you celebrating tonight?”
“A graduation from …” She hesitates, likely rethinking how she wants to phrase it. “College.”
“College?” Christ, had I reached the point where everyone in college looks the same and I can’t discern ages anymore?
“I’m kind of a late bloomer,” she says, assuring me that she isn’t jailbait. Still, I’m definitely older than her, maybe six or seven years. She can’t be more than twenty-five.
I shouldn’t be even thinking that. We’re just chatting over pie.
Her phone pings and she looks down at it with a conflicted expression.
“Need to get that?”
“No, it’s … well, some guy on a dating app.”
My heart does a backflip that lands inelegantly balls-first in the pool. “Some guy?”
“Yeah, we’ve been feeling each other out, trying to decide if it’s worth the effort.”
“Has he seen you?” I did not just say that.
She blinks, acknowledging that I did. Pret-ty smooth, killer.
“I’ve been holding off on sharing pics. He’s sent me an abs pic, though.” She scrolls through and shows me. The shot shows him standing in front of a mirror—aren’t they all?—and has managed low-slung provocative while keeping it PG-13.
“Not sure how I’m supposed to react to that.” I can’t imagine doing that to anyone I was considering for my dating future.
“Give your opinion. Good abs or not?”
“Not sure that’s the right question. I would be more inclined to ask ‘douchebag or asshat?’”
“Because he’s showing off his abs? That’s what everyone does these days. It’s like ‘hi, how are ya? Here’s my calling card.’”
“That’s where I’ve been going wrong.”
She pulls a finger trigger at me, which makes me smile.
“So what do women do in return?” The idea of her sharing some intimate part of her body with some frat bro makes me itchy. Is that what I have to look forward to in a few years with my daughter?
Sure, you’re worried about Lena, and not in any way jealous of this guy who already has abs in the mix.
“Oh, my abs would be better than his.” She scrolls down the thread to the latest message. “He’s wondering if I’m free tonight.”
“You haven’t met him yet?”
She shakes her head, takes another glance at the screen, weighing her options. I don’t want to stand in her way yet … okay, I completely want to stand in her way. I want to cock-block that abs-totin’ dickhead and make a play myself.
“Got any spark with him?”
“Hard to tell with a text exchange. He’s amusing and likes the movies of Kurosawa.”
“Sounds like a winner. Vain and pretentious.”
That makes her laugh, and boy do I like that sound. It’s got a dirty, husky quality that shoots straight to my cock. I rub my jaw over the makings of a beard I’ll have to shave before I go back to work. I’d taken a few days off to fix some stuff around the house and enjoyed not touching my razor.
“You asked,” I comment, though she only asked my opinion on his abs. She’s definitely feeling me out on the topic. Perhaps looking for a signal I would like her to throw over fuck boi, as my sister would call him.
She inhales deeply and that in-drawn breath drags my eyes to her cleavage. Her breasts are spectacular and if I had my way, she would not be snapping them to send off to D-Bag Abs. Those beauties would be all for me.
“Pretty pendant.”
“My mom gave it to me.” She touches the Claddagh symbol and for a moment, looks a little lost. My heart hitches at the pain I see clouding her lovely blue eyes.
Before I can enquire further, the server stops by. “More coffee?”
There were, by my calculations, three bites left to the pie. Once gone, the night would be over. I didn’t have to work tomorrow and the only reason I needed more caffeine was so I could stay awake for the night ahead. If Cherry Pie wanted more …
I raise my gaze to hers and she holds it captive for a charged second, the moment balanced exquisitely on the edge of a thundering heartbeat. Speaking might ruin it. Silence might screw it up spectacularly. I’m usually more decisive—my job demands it—but it’s hard to translate that to your personal life, especially when your life lacks personality.
Slowly, she turns her phone over and it’s all I can do not to stand and cheer. Yes, fucking, yes.
“Sure,” she says to the server.
“Hit me.” I nudge my cup a smidge before taking a slightly larger forkful of pie and pushing the rest to her. “All yours.”
There’s that subtle blush again. All yours. It certainly feels like I’d give her anything.
We’ve spent the last hour talking about pie, TV shows, my sister’s desperation to get me “out there,” my mother’s favorite catchphrase, God rest her soul—“Copernicus called. You’re not the center of the universe”—and now we’re talking about free climbing because apparently she likes it. For fun.
“You go on vacations to climb?”
“It’s the rush. I love it.”
“So you have some sort of Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible death wish?”
She grasps my arm and my entire body goes on high alert, as if I haven’t been touched by a woman in years. “I love that movie. Well, all the movies. But that one is awesome. Tom, just hanging there off a rock like the coolest guy on earth!”
Sure. I can’t imagine enjoying that because I’m often forced to climb in my job. I certainly wouldn’t be choosing to do it for fun.
But I could see how it might be fun if I was with this girl.
“We all have ways to get our kicks.” She runs a finger over the edge of her coffee cup. “How about you? What gets you pumped?”
There’s a silken tease to her voice, an invitation, for sure. I could step right in and take the baton, run with it and a whole flurry of innuendo, guide this night to where I’d like it to go.
What’s stopping me? Performance jitters, maybe. Not my dick—that wouldn’t be a problem around Cherry Pie. All that lush red hair and natural sweetness. But I might be too rough, too desperate after going so long without. I’m already imagining pushing that dainty strap off her shoulder and going to town on her neck, barely managing to hold myself back from the main event: those gorgeous, perfect, full breasts I need in my mouth soon followed by driving deep inside her to the hilt.
I would be a beast and then I’d feel like a jerk afterward.
“My kid.”
“Your—oh, you have a kid?”
Not what she expected at all. Not even what I expected. But the truth is, my daughter fires me up and makes me think I can be a better person every day. She’s the only person I can trust to love me unconditionally. Even my sister has her limits.
“Yeah, a daughter. She’s eleven going on eighty.” When she dips her gaze to my left hand, I murmur, “Divorced.”
“How long?”
“Almost a year.” And what a year it’s been, with the move to Chicago and the wrench from my old New York life, like a limb from a socket. I’d tried to shove it, dislocated as it was, back into place but the clean break was necessary.
My revelation has shifted the energy between us. “Kind of ruined the moment there.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You’re talking about daredevil feats and what gets your adrenaline spiked. I call your hand with my kid. Real smooth.”
Something sparks in her eyes. “Yeah, real smooth.”
Am I trying to scare her off? Maybe. Or perhaps I’m trying to deflect from the lust that must be so obvious it’s a wonder the diner hasn’t incinerated by now.
“But kids are their own adrenaline rush, right?” she asks. “You’d do anything to protect her. That’s kind of … hot.” She waves a casual hand. “If you like that sort of thing.”
Her half-crooked, almost secretive smile says she might indeed like that sort of thing.
Three
Abby
“You don’t need to walk me home.”
He stops and tilts his head. “Is that your way of saying you’d rather I didn’t know where you lived?”
We left the diner together a couple of minutes ago to the soundtrack of Tessa snapping pics of us with her phone. So they can track down your killer if necessary, she added. Not the comfort she thinks it is.
Pie Guy is definitely giving off vibes of normal, but how can you tell these days? I’m sure plenty of women have gone on seemingly normal dates and regretted the reveal of a home address.
Not that this is a date.
Yet I’m thinking of the ways good dates end. The steamy ways.
“You said you were just a couple of blocks away …” he prompts.
“Right, so too short for an Uber but now we’re in this problem gray area where I don’t want you to know my exact address because, stalker. But you’re probably a complete gentleman walking me home, which means you might get offended that I’d even think that.”
He leans against the corner of the diner, a casual yet soothing pose. “You think my ego can’t handle a woman being careful?”
“I don’t know. Can it?”
“It can.”
He has a straight-talking, laconic way about him that’s incredibly sexy.
“Still doesn’t solve our problem,” he adds.
“Unless …” I touch a finger to my lips. “You act as if you never met me and we haven’t been talking for two hours.”
“More like three.”
Really? That’s … I don’t even know what that is. “For all you know, I could be heading home right now, a total stranger, pie in my belly, keys at the ready, poised to jump into action if anyone tries anything.” Little does he know I could probably kick the ass of any guy who crosses me. Some people don’t think it very feminine and plenty of dates have upended on the reveal of my trainee firefighter status. “If you hadn’t come in here tonight, you would never have been presented with this dilemma.”
“Yet I did. And I was.” His hazel eyes flash, and with the illumination of a nearby streetlamp, I spot a ring of green around them. Framed by those inky lashes, they’re possibly the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. “I enjoyed the pie,” he adds.
It sounds like a non sequitur, except that pie is likely a catch-all for the whole experience. He’s enjoyed the conversation, the pie, the sparks igniting between us.
“I enjoyed it, too.”
We walk a few steps, comfortingly in sync.
“This is my street,” I say as we arrive at the corner. It’s not, but we’re close enough. “I live about halfway down the block.”
He puts his hands in his pockets. I hope it’s because he’s having a hard time stopping himself from touching me.
He says, “Do you think you might want to—”
“Yes.” God, I’m embarrassing. “I mean—it depends on what you were going to ask.”
