Christ.
I can still taste her kiss on my lips.
Feel her tongue move against mine.
Hear the hitch in her breath when I stopped questioning why she was kissing me and went all in and kissed her back.
That’s all I can think about as she stands in the kitchen and talks to me in hushed tones, her hands gesticulating wildly for emphasis.
Can’t we just go back to her lips on mine before I noticed that fuck face was standing in my living room attempting to give me the death glare? It was almost as if he was accusing me of stealing his girl. Idiot.
“I’m sorry. I’ll get him to leave,” she says for what feels like the hundredth time as she looks out the window to where Jett paces in the backyard with his cellphone at his ear. I bet he’s trying to look important to intimidate me, and there’s no one on the other end.
Like that’s going to fucking work.
“Are you really making me lasagna?” That’s one way to get my mind off her kiss. And the feel of her tits against my chest. And the surrender of her body as she relaxed against—
“How can you think of food at a time like this?”
I laugh loudly, and I love that it puts a hitch in that fucker’s stride outside. “You’re the one who started it,” I say. “So, we can either focus on food or focus on how we get to pretend to be madly in love.” I shrug and grin. “Your call.”
“I was cooking to be nice to you. That was my original plan. I haven’t seen you eat anything but boiled chicken breasts and broccoli since I’ve been here. Boring.”
“You saw me eat pancakes,” I tease and lift my brows as she sighs in exasperation.
“Why are you taking this so lightly?” she asks.
Because it got you to kiss me.
“Taking what so lightly?”
She’s definitely sexy when she’s flustered.
“This. Jett. Being here. In your house.”
I chuckle because I’m not really quite sure what I think of it yet. But, if him being here is netting me homemade Italian food and a kiss like that? I’m all for it.
“He’s here. We’ll figure it out. But let’s get back to what matters. Food. Weren’t we talking about chicken and broccoli?” I reach behind her and take a pinch of shredded mozzarella cheese from the bowl. “And why you were cooking for me?”
She twists her lips as she puts her hands on her hips and eyes me. I know she thinks I should be pissed at Jett and his ego taking up space in my place—and fuck yes, I am—but I’m still trying to figure out how I want to handle this.
“I was trying to be nice and give you a good meal. But now”—she looks out the window and sighs—“now, it’s a peace offering.”
My stomach rumbles just as Jett raises his voice, making sure we hear his fake laugh as it floats in through the open window. I stare at him. His dark hair and studded wrist cuff. His black jeans and tattooed sleeve. And every part of me bucks the idea of him and Dylan together. I just can’t see it.
Maybe that’s because I don’t want to see it.
“He’s a smarmy fucker, isn’t he?”
She stops twisting her hands and nods her head. “That’s one way to put it.”
“What the hell did you ever see in him?” I can’t stop the comment and don’t want to. Just being in his vicinity makes me forget he’s rock-god Jett Kroger and makes me want to bruise that pretty face of his.
“I don’t know.” Dylan sighs and the sound of it has me regretting asking the question. “I’m sorry. I never intended for him to know where I was. I’ll figure out a way to get him to leave.”
“Is he always this pushy?”
“More like inconsiderate. He’s used to people doing whatever he wants. He says jump and they ask how high.”
I can’t ever imagine her bending to his whim. In fact, I can’t see them together at all, now that I think about it. I glance outside again and watch him. Medium build, cocky-as-fuck attitude, and douche-bag swagger as he walks around like he owns the place.
“How long?” I ask, and she angles her head as if she doesn’t understand. “How long is he in town for?”
“I can go stay at the hotel—” My quirked brow stops her. “In a different room than him,” she says as if she’s exasperated I’d even suggest she’d be in the same room with him, “so he doesn’t have to come around here.”
A part of me likes the idea of not having to see him again. The other part of me hates thinking of the opportunity I’ll give him with her in a hotel room nearby. With a bed.
Fucking Christ.
But if they stay here? If he stays here then I can torment the fucker by thinking Dylan and I really are together as she’s told him . . . wouldn’t that serve the fucker right for doing this to her? Nothing like wanting what you can’t have once someone else has realized its worth.
Both are bad ideas.
One is just less so.
“How many days, Dyl?” I ask the question and reject my own mental warning.
“Three, four days tops.” She glances at him again. “I can stay at the hotel. It’s not a big deal.”
“Let him stay.” I spit the words out.
I’m going to regret this. I know it immediately.
And by the shocked look on Dylan’s face, she is too, but for completely different reasons from mine. Hers? Ex-boyfriend in her face when she’s still trying to get over him. Mine? It’s twofold. First off, her in a hotel room near his. Not the scenario I want to picture. Second, who would say no to playing house for a few days with a hot female? Add to that knowing it would drive tantrum boy crazy with the charade is icing on the cake.
“What do you mean let him stay?” Her eyes widen and confused disbelief blankets her face.
He laughs again. The spikes on his cuff reflect off the sun and make me roll my eyes. “I mean just that. Let him stay.”
“But why?” she stutters as confused to my reaction as I am.
“Because he deserves the torture of sitting here for a few days and seeing how deliriously happy you are. So let him stay while we play it up and make it so sugary sweet he leaves with a cavity.”
“I don’t think—”
“He needs to regret what he did to you.”
She chuckles nervously and her hands mixing the ricotta fall idle. “Don’t say this just to get more meals out of me because you haven’t tasted my cooking yet.”
She’s goddamn adorable. “I’m certain that anything of yours will taste like heaven.”
She stares at me—her eyes widen and head jostles. I love that I can fluster her so easily. She should be used to forward guys after living in Jett’s world, so every time I can make her blush, I’ll take it. It’s the perfect mix of sexy and sweet, and fuck if I won’t mind enjoying a bit more of both while we play house.
“How do you intend to make him see what he’s missing?” she asks, ignoring my comment and the riot of uncertainty it brings her as she averts her eyes and starts mixing vigorously almost as if she knows the answer but is afraid to acknowledge it.
“We continue what you started.” The stirring slows again, and it takes her a minute to lift those gray eyes of hers and meet mine. “We’re a couple. Isn’t that what you told him? Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Kissing. Touching. The whole nine yards.”
Fucking.
Her eyes narrow as she realizes she’s just been screwed by her own game. “I know what I told him.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“That you’re a firefighter.”
“And you’re going to be leaving in a few months. So?” I shrug as if she’s making more of this than she is, but I won’t deny I hate saying the words. I’ve gotten used to having her around. “This is make-believe, remember? Me being a firefighter has nothing to do with it, and even if it did, whoever you’ve pegged me to be because of my profession, I assure you, I’m not him.”
I glare at her and see something pass through her expression that I don’t understand. It almost looks like guilt, but she clears it away as soon as it’s there.
“I’m not sure if we can pull it off.” She shakes her head.
“You’re a songwriter who writes about make-believe happiness. And a woman who I’m sure would love to see her ex be put in his place, so why won’t this work?”
Why am I talking her into this?
“True.” She’s caving.
Because the woman can kiss. And that might just be a side benefit of this situation.
“What do you say, Dylan?” Please. Use me. “We can always make Petunia sleep with him too.”
“Oh my God,” she says through a laugh.
“Right?”
“He’s going to die when he meets her.”
“Well then, I guess we need to move her bed into his room.” Her grin widens at my suggestion, and I know I’ve won her over.
I’ve also bought myself some time with the I-hate-firefighters Dylan.
It’s when I hear the squeal—loud and scared and not from Petunia—that I look outside and see her staring up at Jett. Dylan doubles over in laughter at the sight of Jett freaking out, and I know I’ve won.
Damn. This is going to be fun.
“Mmm that tastes like heaven,” I say as I finish sucking the cannoli cream from Dylan’s finger. I lick my tongue around it and then slide her finger out of my mouth with a pop.
I love watching her struggle with this. Acting as if she isn’t affected by it and averting her eyes because she knows it’s hitting her right between the thighs. “You want some, Jett? I know you have firsthand knowledge of how delicious her dessert tastes.”
He looks up from where he’s sitting on the couch with his iPad in hand, pretending to look at something when I’ve noticed his eyes darting our way every few seconds. With each laugh. With every kiss I press to her bare shoulder. When I leave my hand on her ass between helping her prepare the lasagna.
“No, thanks.” His words are short. Agitated.
How does it feel, Mr. Rock Star, to want something you can’t have?
“Your loss.” I shrug and lift the bottle of beer to my lips as Dylan glances my way. The grin she’s fighting is worth all of this.
I shouldn’t notice her nipples. How they’re hard against her shirt. I shouldn’t look at her legs, the ones she calls mermaid thighs but are really perfect curves, and imagine what they’d look like spread for me.
No doubt my balls are going to be bluer than blue by the time this act is over.
My cell rings and I have no intention of answering it until I see Bowman’s name flash across the screen.
“What’s up, Bowie?”
“When you come in for next shift, can you head in a bit early?”
“Sure, but I’m not in till Thursday. What’s up?” I ask the question, but the annoyed feeling is already hitting me deep. They’re going to badger me about the damn calendar again. Might as well head this off at the pass. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Don’t think about . . . oh. I’m not talking about the calendar, but that subject isn’t dead yet, either.”
Dread replaces my annoyance. “Then what’s it about?”
His pause in response tells me it’s shit I don’t want to deal with. “We’re just having a house meeting.”
“Will Chief be there?” It’s my way of asking if it’s a procedural meeting or if it’s about something that hits close to home, like my lack of performance.
“Nah. Like I said, it’s a house meeting. No big deal.” His nervous chuckle is all I need to know the answer. When you live with a man, even if only in twenty-four-hour shift increments, you learn his tells. And that was his.
No big deal, my ass.
“Sure. I’ll be there early.”
“Great. How’s Brody’s playroom coming?”
“Slower than shit,” I say when all I want is to get off the phone so I can figure a way to avoid this meeting.
“Okay, then . . .”
“Later.”
I hang up and stare out the window, forgetting the act going on around me, because this is real. This is now. And I’m fucking screwed.
“Everything okay?”
I already know what I’m going to do before my feet begin to move. She’s going to hate it and so is he, but I don’t fucking care. She’s using me, and this little charade may be for her own benefit, but I might as well get something out of it too.
A way to release some of the pent-up chaos that phone call just brought. Fuck waiting for the dessert to be done. I want a taste of it right now.
“Grady?” she says seconds before my lips are on hers. Her hands are covered in cannoli cream, and she holds them out to her sides while I frame her face with my hands and do what I want.
Take.
Her kiss.
Her breath.
His patience.
My anger.
All four things are lost when my mouth meets hers. When my tongue darts between those lips. When my thoughts wander to what else I want to taste on her.
Yep. Blue balls, indeed.