That Wild Player, page 6
Crap. I need to stop her before she can start the cross-examination.
I clear my throat. “This is sort of scary,” I say, then clear my throat again.
“How come? Is he a freak?” Dad asks, cracking his knuckles.
Oh, God. Dad getting into a fistfight with CJ is the last thing I need. “No. He bought me some sushi for lunch—like, really good sushi—then had chocolate delivered to my place before I came home from work. Now he’s sending me flowers here. It’s like he’s stalking me.”
Mom arches an eyebrow. “It’s the least he should do to show how serious he is about you. It isn’t that hard to stalk people these days, anyway.”
Dad nods. “Your mother isn’t wrong. With the Internet and social media, it’s easier than ever before.”
I sigh. Like my parents really know more about social media than I do. I keep my profiles and updates available to friends only, and I don’t accept requests from people I don’t know.
On the other hand, CJ has access to both Matt and Alexandra. They know plenty.
“So tell me about this young man,” Mom says.
“He’s just…a guy. Nothing serious.” I’m so not discussing CJ with Mom. Then I seize on the perfect topic. “Alexandra asked me to help with a marketing campaign.”
“Did she now?” Mom beams. As far as she’s concerned, anything’s a huge step up from my HR job. “Tell me all about it.”
So I do, putting the flowers down on a chair next to me, out of her sight. But as she leans forward to listen, her eyes growing brighter, a small pit of disappointment forms in my gut…because I have no interest in marketing, Alexandra only picked me for the job because CJ asked her to, and Mom’s never had that avid look about anything I’ve actually accomplished on my own. It hurts that she doesn’t believe I’ll be able to succeed in my own way and have the kind of amazing life she has.
Chapter Ten
Michelle
I should’ve just canceled. After the brunch with my parents, I’m not in the mood for meeting a romantic prospect. The visit went well, but it was a mistake to mention the marketing campaign thing. Now Mom thinks I’m going to move to a different division, just like Jan did. Not only that, she thinks I’m finally “getting serious” about my life.
In a way, I’m sure she’ll never believe I’m happy exactly where I am. I like rules and policies and helping people. I also enjoy letting others know what an awesome place Sweet Darlings is. I’m proud the company was founded by a woman, and that she’s still in charge. I love its values and mission and what Alexandra has accomplished.
But I didn’t cancel. So now I’m stuck.
Just one coffee. Then you can leave.
I walk into Starbucks and order a skinny latte, even though this will be my fifth shot of caffeine today—Mom’s big on coffee. It’s not so crowded at two thirty, and I find an empty table by the window. Since I don’t see anyone matching the profile picture of Webster—today’s prospect, who claims his English teacher mom named him after the dictionary—I sit down and check my emails. Not even my PI boss, Dick, has anything for me. I sigh. This weekend sucks worse than a supercharged vacuum cleaner. I have nothing to do for the rest of the day, Jan and Sammi are busy with their men, and I’m not optimistic about my chances here. CJ doesn’t seem to need my help to figure out our app. Not that I expect or want him to contact me.
No. Not at all.
Fourteen minutes later, a guy in a grunge T-shirt, frayed jeans and sneakers walks in, a beat-up messenger bag slung across his torso. He matches the profile picture exactly—messy black hair, soft eyes and a slightly sleepy smile. Webster. He moves as though he has all the time in the world, when in fact he’s ten minutes late. Not a good start.
Maybe bad traffic? He could’ve been delayed, trying to avoid running over puppies. Or baby ducks.
We’ll see.
He orders a Frappuccino and ambles over when he spots me. He grins. Unlike Jerry, his pearly whites are mercifully free of food bits.
“Hey,” he says, his voice indolent. “I’m Webster.”
“I’m Michelle.” I sip my latte.
“Am I late?”
Shouldn’t he know? Man, if he pulled this for a job interview, he would be rejected immediately.
“I really dug your profile,” he continues, not waiting for an answer and totally oblivious to my mild annoyance. “You seem like just the kind of girl I’ve been looking for. I like ’em smart and gorgeous.”
You and the rest of the world, buddy. Take a number. “Thanks,” I say. “So. Tell me about yourself beyond what’s on your profile.”
He blinks once, then inhales, and says in one long, breathless ramble, “Right. Like I said, you’re exactly my type. I didn’t put this on my profile, but I really don’t like shallow girls who expect me to give them everything. It’s the twenty-first century, you know? You seem like a real go-getter.”
“Uh-huh.” What the hell am I doing here? The realization hits that I’m going to end up wasting the afternoon.
“I was homeless for two years. Really made me appreciate the things money can’t buy, you know? Speaking of which, I made this for you.” He reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out an inch-thick sheaf of papers and hands it to me. “It’s a notebook,” he says.
Not really. It’s actually a stack of paper bound together with some kind of red vinyl string. The cover is red-and-green craft paper that’s been laminated.
“It’s handmade. Even the paper.”
I can tell. The paper’s worse than the pulp news is printed on. It’s so thin, it’s almost transparent. And my fingers have grayish stains where I’ve touched it.
“You like it?”
“I’ve…never received a gift like this before.” If this is some kind of test to measure my material greed… Well, I’ll gladly fail. “I don’t use paper much. So it’s hard to say. Looks…thoughtful.”
“Oh. Well, if you don’t want to write or draw on it, you can always use the sheets for napkins. They’re not perforated, but they rip pretty well.”
Unless gray lips are coming into fashion, napkin usage is going to be a ginormous no. On the other hand, Webster’s giving me a pleading puppy face. If I actually say no, is it going to be like kicking him or something? Ugh.
Before I have to respond, a squeal comes from behind me. A woman my age trots over. “Hey, Trevor Pie, how are you? Where’ve you been hiding?”
Trevor Pie? I can feel my internal eyebrows rise.
“Oh, hi, Bessie.” He smiles, his gaze darting from her to me and back.
She strokes his forearm, then shoulder…then runs her fingers through his hair. There’s absolutely nothing sisterly or platonic about her touches.
And here I was, worried about hurting his feelings.
Sucker. No wonder your mom worries about you.
Shut up.
“Hey, babe. What a surprise seeing you out here,” comes CJ’s voice. He ambles over from the counter, holding a venti-sized drink. He’s in a casual plain green T-shirt and denim shorts that show off his pecs, arms and calves. So unfair—he isn’t just facially gorgeous. He has to have a stunning body too.
And I’m not the only one who’s noticing CJ’s masculine perfection. Bessie eyes him avariciously, actually licking her lips like he’s a platter of Kobe beef.
Trevor Pie raises an accusing eyebrow in my direction.
The nerve! At least I didn’t give him a fake name!
CJ shoots a curious gaze at Webster. “Who’s this?”
My fingers tight around my purse, I stand up. “Nobody. By the way, Bessie, he’s trolling for girls on SweetMatch as Webster Mann. Thought you should know.”
Webster’s jaw drops, and Bessie gasps.
I toss his cheap notebook in his face. “This isn’t going to work, Webster. I’m just too material for someone like you. I like my cars fancy, my clothes fashionable and my cuisine haute. And generally speaking, I don’t care about things money can’t buy coming from guys like you. I’m really not interested in chlamydia or gonorrhea.”
Then, with head held high but pride sorely bruised, I march out with my purse and skinny latte.
Chapter Eleven
CJ
Normally, I’d enjoy crushing a weasel like this guy in Starbucks, but since Michelle did such a great job, I don’t feel like I can add much. Besides, I’m thinking about her list of the ways she likes her car, clothes and food. I can handle all that, and on top of the five requirements her friends tossed out.
So I just throw a smirk at the dazed sap and follow Michelle out.
The June afternoon in Virginia is hot, and heavy with the kind of humidity I almost managed to forget during my years in Silicon Valley. Michelle’s long, wavy hair bounces around her shoulders as she walks purposefully.
I catch up to her and put a hand on her elbow. “Hey, that was a pretty decent tongue-lashing.”
She doesn’t look at me. Instead, she bows her head so her hair falls forward, hiding her expression. She places her coffee on the roof of her car, then searches her purse.
Who knows what women carry in their purses? I just know most of them are heavy. And Michelle’s seems extra stuffed because she’s having trouble finding whatever she’s looking for—probably her car fob.
“Shit,” she mutters.
Exhaling heavily, she leans her back against her car, takes her coffee and has a sip. The corners of her mouth are turned downward, and her hands are a little shaky.
“You okay?”
“Not really. I should’ve just left when he was late.”
Wow. That punk was late too? What a dumbass. A gentleman always shows up five minutes early. Didn’t his mom teach him anything?
“Can I ask you something?” she says, still not looking at me. Her gaze is directed at Starbucks, where we can see the moron and the girl arguing through a window. “A totally objective question.”
“Sure.”
“Do you think there’s something…off about me?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Is there something about me that isn’t right?”
I stare at her profile, unsure what brought this on. It couldn’t have been the loser in Starbucks. An odd mixture of outrage and protectiveness surges inside me. Just how many assholes have hurt her that she would feel this way?
“You can’t even answer, can you?” She shakes her head, then straightens. “Forget I said anything. It’s just stress and a lack of sleep. And maybe too much coffee.”
Oh no. She isn’t ending the conversation on this shitty note. “There’s nothing off about you. You’re perfect the way you are.”
Finally, she turns to look at me. Her caramel eyes are dark with hurt and frustration. “Honestly?”
“I don’t bullshit people.”
She stares at me like she can’t quite believe me. Jesus. What the hell happened to her? She’s so freakin’ gorgeous, she should be strutting around with all the confidence in the world.
Because I hate the look in her eyes and because I want to erase it, I lean forward until our faces are so close that I can feel her breath tickling my cheeks. Her eyelashes flutter, and I see her throat work. My heart thumps twice.
A second. Time enough for her to decide if she doesn’t want it. When she doesn’t pull back, I close the gap and press my lips over hers, which have starred in a half-dozen dirty dreams since I first saw her at the sushi restaurant.
Her mouth is even softer than I imagined, all plump and yielding flesh, like a summer-ripened peach. She doesn’t part her lips—which is fine. This is our first kiss, and I’m willing to put in the work to make it more than good for her—to show her we should go for it.
I explore her lips with mine, learning their texture, their give. I take my time and let her get used to the feel of my lips over hers and what they’ll be like if she opens her mouth, lets me in. How they’ll feel when they stroke every curve on her stunning body and end the blissful journey between her thighs.
My pulse picks up, and I feel drunk on her. She lets out a small, shuddering breath, and the tiny gesture is all the permission I need. I run my tongue across her mouth, then groan at the heady sweetness of her taste.
I slant my head and fuse our mouths. Her tongue flicks over my bottom lip, then slips inside for a quick taste, stroking the tip of my tongue. The move is tentative, but the reaction she elicits from my body is anything but. Lust roars in my veins, and my dick’s so hard, it almost hurts.
Still…I slow down and let out a small sound of encouragement for her. She pushes in more boldly. Her fingers dig into my side and shoulder, and I grasp her silken hair at her nape and put a hand at the small of her back, pulling her closer until my cock is pushing against her taut belly.
This was supposed to be me seducing her, but she’s the one pulling me deeper into a mind-destroying pool of desire, setting every one of my nerve endings on fire.
My heart thunders, and lust expands, making my skin feel hot and tight. I know she feels the same from the subtle way she’s moving her pelvis and legs, trying to ease the sweet ache forming between her thighs.
I’m going to—
“I knew it! You hypocrite bitch!”
Michelle jerks away from me, and I hate it so much that I almost growl. Her eyes open, glazed with lust. Two rapid blinks later, the haze is gone.
I turn and face the moron from Starbucks. He actually looks indignant as he glares at Michelle. Then he has the nerve to turn to me. “You’re a fool if you think she’s a good girlfriend. You know why she was in there? In case you’re slow and didn’t catch on, she was in there for a date. With me!” He points a thumb in his chest.
I inhale as a need for violence replaces my lust. Some guys really deserve to get the shit kicked out of them. After all, they’re asking for it, like this no-account dumbass in front of me. “I don’t give a fuck. Or are you asking me to do something about you trying to poach my girl?”
The guy’s eyes widen until I can see the white all around his pupils. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Dude, chill. I didn’t mean it like that.” He licks his lips. “I meant she was bad.”
“I know exactly what you were trying to say. I’m telling you I blame you, not her, for what happened inside.”
“Uh…” He inches back. “That’s not… That isn’t…” His gaze darts between me and Michelle.
I take a step forward, and he hightails it like a rabbit scenting a wolf.
Michelle slaps a hand across her eyes. “Great. Just great.”
“He’s gone now. I doubt he’ll ever bother you again.”
“That’s not the point.”
No, it isn’t. The point is we should go back to kissing. Her lips are gorgeously swollen and glistening.
But before I can move closer, she turns away, dropping her hand. “Somehow I end up with all the losers.”
Okay, so the kissing won’t be resuming. I should’ve knocked the guy’s teeth out. Just on principle. “That’s because you never went out with me.”
“But—”
“I heard about your policy about interoffice dating, but I already cleared it with Matt. I don’t count as your coworker.”
“But—”
“Michelle, if you eliminate all the winners for one reason or the other, all you can end up with is losers.”
She frowns. “Yeah, but…”
“Am I not your type?” Probably not the case. I’ve never had a woman run the other way. And the way Michelle responded to my kiss…
But she’s also unpredictable and different.
Her mouth purses as her cheeks flush into a deeper shade of red, then she shakes her head. “This isn’t about you. I just want to avoid awkwardness. Anyway, I gotta go.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Pretending there’s no chemistry between us won’t solve your problem.”
“That’s fabulous, because I don’t have a problem. I have an appointment.” She reaches into her purse again. This time she manages to fish out her fob.
“With who?”
She climbs into her car. “My vacuum cleaner!” The door shuts behind her.
I can’t help it. Even though my cock’s aching like hell, I burst out laughing as she drives away. Ah Michelle, Michelle… Didn’t anybody tell you the chase is half the fun?
I’m not letting her run a third time.
Chapter Twelve
Michelle
New discovery for the day: it’s remarkably difficult to squirm and walk at the same time. My whole body is prickling, and between my legs? Wet, hot and tingly. I definitely need a new pair of underwear, assuming I can make it to my room without combusting from need.
It takes way too long to fish out the house key. My fingers are clumsy, and I’m too distracted, and I can’t seem to figure out how to hold my bouquet of orchids and search for the key at the same time. The kiss keeps playing in my head, squeezing all the air out of my lungs, making me dizzy. If Webster/Trevor hadn’t interrupted, I might just have jumped CJ right there in the parking lot.
A small voice of negativity pops up. What if he’s disappointing in bed? But it’s quickly squelched when the tropical orchid petals brush across my bare arm, making my skin tight and hot. The kiss left me too primed; right now, I could probably take a bottle of sink cleaner to bed and have a really good time.
I unlock the door—finally—and walk inside. It’s blissfully quiet with Jan and Sammi gone. I place the bouquet on the kitchen counter and quickly climb the stairs to my room. I need my BOB pronto!
My dress whispers against my skin, and I feel it like soft strokes all over me. How could he have worked me up like this with just one kiss?
My phone beeps. A text.
–CJ: Don’t do it without me.
I inhale sharply. How on earth did he know? I glance around the hall quickly, half expecting to see a spy cam somewhere.
–Michelle: I don’t know what you mean.
–CJ: Yeah, you do.
–Michelle: Are you spying on me?
