Claire

I run a giant, padded claw over my sweaty boobs just as a car rolls past me at my Intersection of Shame. The window lowers, a man’s face emerges from the depths of the shadowed vehicle, and he hollers, “I’d love to puck-puck-puck-p’kaw you!”

Rooster jokes—how original. I’m not even sure he realizes that I’m a hen, and that I wouldn’t sleep with him if he were the last rooster on Earth.

My arm lifts and I shoot him the bird (literally) with my talons. The sound of honking cars eclipses whatever other condescending words he has for the chick in the chicken suit.

(I will stop the chicken puns, but not yet—it’s the only thing that makes this gig bearable.)

“I hate my life.”

I don’t look at my fellow victim, Darci. If I do, I may lose whatever composure I’ve scraped together today. It’s one thing to wear this Big Bird costume—without a mirror nearby, I can forget the fact that I look utterly ridiculous. But if I glance Darci’s way . . . well, there won’t be any way to pretend that Big Bird hasn’t totally taken a stroll down stripper lane, and now comes in a package of metallic-gold booty shorts and a bustier that would give an A-cup the same amount of cleavage as a DD.

If it sounds like a horrible wardrobe choice, you’d be right. The bustier and booty shorts sit over the chicken suit itself, and there are so many feathers protruding at so many angles, it looks like we haven’t been waxed . . . ever.

With a talon, I click on my microphone so Darci can hear me. “We have ten minutes left.”

“We should have called it quits the moment we ran out of samples two hours ago.”

My gaze drops to the empty tray at my feet. Sure enough, the drumsticks have been gone for over an hour, but I figured it was best to stay out here than to potentially run into Jake Matthews, the stealer of hearts.

He doesn’t have my heart, mind you, but that hasn’t stopped him from catching every Jane, Harriet, and Sally’s in Brooklyn.

He never keeps them, fickle playboy that he is. If you’re wondering how I know so much about him, just remember that I have that unofficial degree in Online Stalking. A skill, I’d like to point out, that comes in handy during the rare occasions when I drink one too many flutes of champagne and can’t help but do a little Google searching.

“Five more minutes,” I tell Darci. “You’re off for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”

Unlike myself, Darci works at the Matthews’ family restaurant, The Roost and Hen, as a full-time office receptionist. And, unlike myself, Darci is paid salary. I’m a freelancer, which means that I need to freelance my butt off until my full four hours are a wrap if I want to make the most of my paycheck.

“I—oh, hell.”

My feathers still their ruffling. “What?” I whip around, talons going to my head piece to keep it from falling off. The street is oval-shaped, thanks to my limited vision and the cut-outs for my eyes, but then I see the car, and . . .

Oh, hell.

Jake.

The driver’s side door of his red, vintage Mustang swings open, and one finely polished shoe hits the cement, followed by the other. Crisp Chino’s follow next, and my mouth waters in anticipation for the best part of him—his wide chest, those spectacular abs that are concealed today by an equally crisp white button-down—and then I see his face.

Thank God for the chicken suit, because no one but me knows that I’ve just blossomed about fifteen different shades of red.

Dark sunglasses sit perched on his nose, lending him a bad boy air that is all too realistic. Jake isn’t a bad guy. He helps with his parent’s restaurant, even though he makes oodles of money as one of New York City’s top lawyers; he’s been known to sit through a cross-stitching session, just to please his aging grandmother; and, if I’m not mistaken, he frequently donates a lot of his money from his law firm to local charities.

So, not a bad guy, but he’s not necessarily a good one either. In the six weeks that I’ve been working the chicken suit, there’s been no escaping his barrage of “girlfriends” who come into The Roost and Hen while on the hunt. I’m not sure if he has a magical penis, or whether these girls just don’t realize that they’re wasting their time, but Jake rarely takes them and even that never stops them from believing they’ve found The One.

In six weeks, I have seen no less than eight women stroll into the family restaurant, mascara smeared, as they pledge their case to Darci to let them see Jake.

I’m convinced that if he weren’t so good-looking then this wouldn’t even be an issue—his personality is atrocious.

With dread, I notice that he isn’t heading toward the restaurant’s front door. Rather, his feet are carrying him toward Darci and I.

“Darc,” he murmurs in a low voice, “how’d it go today?”

I finally glance at her. She’s got her head piece thrown back, revealing sweaty blonde hair and a red face. I doubt I look any better. Her eyes, however, are annoyed.

She thrusts a talon in his direction. “I told your dad that this is the most pointless marketing tactic to ever exist.”

Jake slips his sunglasses off his face and hooks them over his unbuttoned collar, revealing sharp blue eyes that have the ability to wet panties upon impact. “I’ll mention it to him.”

“I’ll quit, Jake,” Darci says, folding her arms over her sequined bustier. “When I took the receptionist job, dressing up like a chicken and passing out fried drumsticks was not in my contract.”

“Like I said, Darc, I’ll talk to my father about it.”

“You said that last week.”

“The chicken thing is a tradition,” he murmurs, “and my father hates breaking with tradition.”

She plucks at the waistband of her booty shorts with a look of disgust. “The outfit, however, is not tradition.”

“No,” Jake says slowly, piquing my interest, “that’s a recent addition, as you know.” Blue eyes land on me. “A six-week addition.”

My mouth falls open just as Darci huffs something about integrity before storming off in the direction of the restaurant. But I’m still in shock, because if I’m reading the situation correctly then that means the bustier-booty shorts combo started about the time that I came on . . .

The spring breeze catches in Jake’s brown hair, blowing the short strands into disarray. “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” he murmurs, slipping one hand casually into the front pocket of his slacks. “Haven’t had the chance to lay an egg yet and work out your aggression?”

Like clockwork, he falls into our weekly rhythm of him baiting me into removing my head piece. Like clockwork, I refuse to remove anything until I’m tucked away in the employee’s bathroom, where I can fix myself up. After that, I usually scope out the area for his presence, so I can escape without talking to him.

Because I’m a mature, twentysomething-year-old woman, and things like talking to cute guys don’t bother me.

Ha.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I throw his way, snatching the silver tray from the ground and following Darci. “Maybe talking to Celia?”

Confusion laces his rumbling baritone when he asks, “Who’s Celia?”

“The woman who showed up this morning? Bawling her eyes out? A redhead?” When all he does is stare at me blankly, I roll my eyes. “You took her out for dinner last week and then never called her after?”

His silence says everything.

And this is the reason why I will never let Jake into my pants, even if he tried—which he hasn’t. I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment, but aside from his sarcastic commentary that often borders on the flirtatious, Jake Matthews keeps to his side of the drawn line.

He stays on his side; I stay on mine.

Meanwhile, I go to bed each night wondering if he does, in fact, possess a magical penis. Verdict is out on that one, but based on the number of women chasing him, I’m tempted to believe that he does.

“I have no idea why women put up with you.” My hand wraps around the front door’s handle, but when I pull, nothing happens. I glance up to see that Jake has his palm flat against the door. I meet his gaze in the reflection. “The longer you keep me out here, the more your father has to pay me. Feel free to take up the rest of my day.”

“Is that the only reason you keep this gig?” His palm slides down the worn wood, coming to rest alongside my hand on the door handle. “We both know the pay is shit.”

It’s true—the pay isn’t good, but it’s better than nothing. While I wait for my agent to book me legitimate acting gigs, I’ve built a solid clientele which keeps me afloat from week to week. It might not be for everyone, but it works for me, and that’s all that matters.

“If you’re so concerned that I’m getting paid next to nothing, tell your father to give me a raise,” I tell Jake. “You won’t hear me complain.”

“I don’t handle the books.”

“But you handle the costume choices?”

I watch his expression closely, noting the way his gaze lights with humor as he slowly peruses my suit. “I was trying to spruce it up for you,” he says, “give the hen a little flair to match her owner.”

“I don’t prance around in bustiers and hot pants all day.”

“That’s a damn shame.”

Before I work out a proper response to that surprising comment, his fingers brush mine, sending my heart into a traitorous thump-thump-thump against my ribs. Then his fingers leave mine, and I watch as if in slow motion as his hand goes for my head piece.

Noooo.

He decapitates me without further deliberation, sending my chicken head flailing to the tiled stoop. My hands grapple for the beak, but Jake wraps a confident hand around my elbow and turns me to face him.

The victorious smirk on his handsome face both infuriates me and inflames me, and I poke him in the chest with a talon.

Only, it doesn’t have quite the desired effect—the talon is made out of a flimsy material, and it crumples under the force of my finger-jab.

He ignores my humiliation. “You know, I don’t think I’ve actually seen your face since the first day you started.”

Really? This is what he wants to discuss? “You see me every week,” I bite out.

I’m fully aware of my brown hair plastered with sweat to the side of my face. I didn’t bother with makeup this morning, either, which really . . . enough said. I look like Hell. A sweaty, B.O-smelling woman with nowhere to hide.

Jake kicks the chicken head out of the way, as though seeking to eliminate any chance I have of making a grab for it. “I forgot you had brown eyes,” he says, and, cheesy as it is, our gazes lock and hold. “Can’t see much of you when you’re surrounded by yellow feathers.”

“What, have you just been waiting for the chance to get a glimpse of my face?” Sarcasm drips from my tongue when I add, “Do you have a crush on me, Mr. Matthews?”

Dimples pierce his cheeks as he grins. “Would you like that, Miss Holloway? Me having a crush on you?”

If this is a battle of the words, I’m very close to losing. It’s not even my fault—I’ve never stood so close to him before, and certainly not close enough to catch a hint of his cologne. It’s something masculine and woodsy, and . . . and I slam my eyes shut to stop my wandering thoughts. “Are you bored?”

“You tell me. I’m standing here talking to a woman in a chicken suit . . . should I be bored?”

“I think you’re trying to rile me up,” I answer, opening my eyes in time to see him flick his gaze away from my mouth. “I think you’re bored and have nothing better to do, and every week I provide a certain measure of entertainment.”

“You are an actress,” he murmurs, one corner of his mouth kicking up in a sexy half grin. “It’s practically your job to entertain people.”

“It’s not my job to entertain you.”

“Because . . .?”

Seriously, he wants me to list out the reasons? Fine, I’ll do it—gladly. Crossing my arms over my feathered chest, I say, “I have standards.”

“Do you?” He doesn’t sound like he believes me.

“Yes,” I sniff.

“So, I don’t meet your criteria?”

My eyes go wide at that, but I manage to restrain my surprise. I’m an actress, and I put on a show to deflect from the truth. “I’m so sorry, Jake.” I go all out, patting his corded forearm when he frowns, and lowering my voice as though I don’t want to hurt him. “This is so incredibly awkward, but you have so many admirers . . . they obviously like what you’re putting out.”

His blue eyes narrow. “And you don’t?”

“If you’re trying to ask me if you’re my type . . .” I give a little shrug. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re great, Jake, but I need a little more.”

“Like what?” he grinds out from between gritted teeth.

“A man who’s loyal for one.”

His mouth twists, twin fires sparking in his blue eyes. “You know what I think, Claire?”

“Is this where I tell you that I don’t care?”

His hands land on either side of my head on the door, and he lowers his face close to mine. “I think you’re jealous,” his whispers in a soft voice. “I think you’re jealous that not once in six weeks have I tried to strip you naked.”

Ignoring the rapid pounding of my heart, I shake my head. “No, Mr. Matthews, I don’t think that’s the case at all. In fact, I think it might be the other way around completely.” I’ve so fallen into the tense moment reverberating between us that I don’t even realize that the reason his face is growing nearer is because I’ve lifted my clawed-hand to the back of his head and pulled him down.

His eyes flash, but I don’t heed the warning.

“You know what I think?” I whisper when his lips are a hair’s breadth away from mine.

In a voice pitched from gravel, he murmurs, “Something tells me you’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not.”

I ignore his sass. “I think that you’re annoyed that in six weeks, I’ve never once thrown myself at you. That I haven’t demanded to see your magical penis—”

“Did you just say that I have a magical penis?”

“But let’s get this straight, Jake Matthews,” I plow forward, unrelenting. “You may think you’re Mr. Hot Shot, but it takes more than a pretty face and a ritzy car to get on my good—”

His lips crash down on mine. It’s so brief, so hard, so un-romantic, that I don’t even have the chance to acknowledge the fact that Jake’s lips are on mine before he’s already pulling away. One glance up at his expression tells me that this kiss wasn’t about romance, though. It was about shutting me up.

“I don’t know what women see in you,” I say, repeating what I’d uttered earlier, just so I can see frustration skit across his features. “Your kiss is lackluster.”

“But my cock is magical, apparently.” He steps back, his gaze still on me, and I’d be lying if that one look doesn’t totally warm my girl parts.

I cock my hip out and go for a can’t-be-bothered pose. “Are you fleeing, Mr. Matthews?”

“Just going to go brush up on my kissing skills, Miss Holloway. Don’t be jealous.” And then the bloody man winks—winks! “I’ll see you next week,” he says huskily. “Try not to think about me at night, sweetheart.”

“There’s no way I’m thinking about you tonight or any other night!” I holler after his retreating back.

But as I watch him stroll over to his Mustang, I can’t help but acknowledge the fact that he’s right. Because even though his kiss wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns and pots of treasure, it was the exact opposite—devilish, needy, and hot.

As much as I don’t want to admit it, Jake’s kiss has left me breathless. And I desperately want another taste.   

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