I had already snagged two cookies (thank you, Jesus), a biscotti, and a cup of coffee, and claimed a seat when Hot Guy walked through the door. And it was all I could do to breathe and keep chewing.
It was weird now, seeing him there at group as Thatcher Roman, and not the mysterious hot stranger. Like seeing someone out of context. But more than that, I felt exposed. Never in my life, not even with my husband, had I ever laid my guts out on the table like I had that day on the floor of my empty house. Curled up in his arms and vulnerable, I might as well have been completely naked and spread out for him under a spotlight.
I forced myself to look at him, and oh, God, my whole body reacted, including my heart, which slammed around in my chest like a cue ball. His eyes fell on me immediately, too, and he lifted his chin a little as though to beef up his resistance.
His resistance? I was the one fighting life every time he was around.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Thatcher since that day, and whether or not that was a good thing depended on the moment at hand. It was Thursday. A full four days since my meltdown in his arms. Six days since nearly having sex on my door and making out on the stairs of a restaurant, and seven days since this whole nirvana kicked off in his truck. After this meeting. But who was counting? Four days was enough to think entirely too much. About how I felt every time I was near him, about feelings and priorities and drawing lines.
Lines were clearly necessary, and feelings needed to be a non-issue if we were going to stay in business together and if I was going to stay friends with Micah. We might not be able to keep our hands off each other—I’d come to that realization—but this thing needed a definition and a plan to keep it at the primal level. Sex, plain and simple.
I liked that plan. It was structured and simple and not messy. Monkey sex against a door? Absolutely. Falling apart in his arms in a puddle of emotional wreckage—entirely too much mess. That crap couldn’t happen again.
So, I’d dressed like the bar hoppers tonight, needing desperately to fill his mind with a better image than how he’d left me last. With extraterrestrial eyes and a red nose, feelings and drama exploding everywhere and snot sounding off in every breath—yeah, it was necessary. Call me needy, call me one of those stereotypical women dressing for a guy, call me whatever. I needed to be hot tonight, and I had no desire to explain why.
Therefore, fuck-me high-heeled boots with a flirty skirt, a clingy super soft sweater with a provocative cleavage peep-hole—and his jacket over it all—was the ticket. I could have worn a nice, dressy coat with the ensemble. I owned one. Somewhere. But even with all this “plan” I had going on, the person who didn’t want a boyfriend needed to wear his jacket like a high school girl claiming her territory.
It didn’t have to make sense.
Because the moment he strolled in wearing the leather jacket I’d seen him in the very first time, resting his eyes on me in that wary way of his and looking like sex on a stick dipped in chocolate, all the pieces fell into place.
I was ready to leave. With him. And go anywhere that involved no clothing.
We needed to do this, to finish this, to complete this mating dance thing we’d been doing, and call it what it was. Major sexual chemistry that would not be denied. That’s all. That would alleviate my constant overthinking of us, and focus the fun on where it needed to be.
“So, who are you tonight?” came rough and gruff side braid, as she plopped into the seat next to mine and took a frosted cookie off my plate. She held it up and leaned over to read my nametag. “Crème Brûlée?”
I shrugged, taking a slow breath as I watched Thatcher amble over to the nametag table and scribble something.
“Sounded good at the time,” I said, dunking my biscotti and biting off a large piece. “I might be a little hungry,” I mumbled around it.
She glanced at Thatcher, who had turned to the food table and was glancing our way.
“Or you might be stress eating,” she said.
I read her tag. “Doris? As in Day?”
“Is there any other?” she said, eating my cookie in a nibbled circle.
“Girl, you look hot,” said Aspen as she landed next to me in her trademark braless shirt, nipples permanently frozen, by the looks of things. She held a dainty little plate of strawberries in her hand. “I love those boots!”
“Thanks,” I said, suddenly disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to sit next to me. Because I was an idiot.
“But take off the jacket, it’s ruining the effect of that to-die-for sweater,” she added with a hand flourish.
I pulled the jacket off my shoulders, and let it slide off me, enjoying the tiny thrill that rocketed through me as his movements halted mid-step to watch me.
“Damn, girl,” Doris said under her breath as she looked from me to Thatcher.
“Y’all don’t look, but I think someone’s checking me out,” Aspen whispered, her voice all breathy with a little giggle.
I actually looked around for someone else for about half a second, before Doris and I locked gazes and she turned her head the opposite way to snicker.
“Yep,” I said, clearing my throat. “Looks that way.”
Aspen straightened in her seat and smiled beautifully at him like we were lined up at a seventh grade dance, waiting on him to ask one of us. His gaze traveled down the line with a quirked eyebrow before he made the smarter choice to take a seat across the room like last time.
Right across from me.
Awesome.
Well, to be fair, he was also right across from Aspen and her perma-nipples, so there was that. I glanced sideways at her as she gave a little laugh and smiled at him, waving with her pinky finger while she took a seductive bite out of a strawberry.
Thatcher lifted a hand in a lazy wave back, gave her oral fruit sex a second glance—couldn’t blame him there—and rested his eyes on me. My skin warmed twenty degrees under that gaze.
That was okay. Heat was okay. Channel all that and it would make for a hot, steamy reunion maybe after the meeting. I was suddenly way too aware of my bare bottom and tiny little thong under my skirt, and it was all I could do not to uncross and recross my legs in front of him.
There was something more in those eyes, now, though. A familiarity. Knowledge. Affection. A lot had happened between us in a week, and it was all over his face.
Nope, let’s go back to the—
“So, who wants to start tonight?” Aspen said next to me as the others started settling in. It was a light crowd, just Collin, Felicia, and Veronica there besides the four of us, so no new introductions, no one to hide behind. No new nametags, even. Collin had sat down next to Thatcher and did an awkward fist bump with him like guy solidarity in the midst of five females. Aspen read my nametag and chuckled. “Crème Brûlée? Okay, you want to kick it off?”
I frowned. “Um, no.”
“Come on,” she said, giving me a little elbow nudge. “Tell us about your week.”
Automatically, my gaze darted to Thatcher and his attempt not to be smug over there. His eyebrows lifted a little with the corners of his lips.
“Yeah, Crème Brûlée,” he said, making me look down at my hands so the room at large wouldn’t see the affect his voice had on me. “How was your week?”
Okay, he wanted to play. I could play.
I did slide my leg down slowly and cross the other one, taking my time to make sure he caught every move and maybe even get a sneak peek if he’d been quick and crafty enough. Those hazel eyes went heavy with desire as they dropped to watch the show, and I felt victorious. Unfortunately, Collin’s expression did the same thing, his face turning white as all the blood in his head left for other ventures. He clasped his hands strategically in his lap and I wished the floor to open up and take me.
“Well, I lost my house, moved into a dorm room the size of a closet,” I said. “I nearly had sex with my best friend’s brother. Twice,” I added, holding up two fingers. “My ex is getting married tomorrow night, and there are actual posters all over town designed like candy Valentine’s Day hearts with stupid little sayings and their picture.”
“Gross,” Felicia said.
“You’re telling me,” I said.
“No, I mean, having sex with your bestie’s brother,” she said. “That’s like Stupid Moves 101.”
Damn it! Don’t rain on my sex parade!
I caught Thatcher’s eye for half a second and willed him not to listen. Yes, I was saying that very same thing last week, or not even that long ago, but I’d grown since then. Expanded my horizons.
“Why?” Veronica said. “She didn’t say she was marrying the guy and putting up posters—that would be stupid. She just wants to bang him. What’s wrong with that?”
“Exactly!” I said.
Thatcher’s expression went from amused to confused.
“So—just so I understand,” he said, holding up a hand and making me wish for that trap door again. Why did I speak? “You did in the past, or you still want to have sex with the guy?”
Fuckety fuck fuck.
“Yes,” I said slowly, thinking out every second of the word. “I originally agreed with Felicia that it was a bad idea, and really I still do, but—there’s this chemistry that’s off the charts, and—”
“That’s hot,” Veronica said, pointing.
“That’s forbidden,” Felicia said, holding up her hands. “That’s all that’s making it hot.”
“No, actually, it was hot before it was forbidden,” I said, and both women just stared blankly at me. I felt my scalp start to sweat and started fanning myself with my now empty paper plate. “It was—all that—before we knew he was—who he is.”
“Come again?” Felicia said.
God.
I sighed, and ignored the really good arms crossing over there as he sat back and watched me flounder.
“I’d never met my friend’s brother in person,” I said, closing my eyes. “Even though we’re all in a business thing together, I’d—”
“Wait, you work together, too?” Felicia interjected.
I blew out a breath and opened my eyes, staring down at a spot on the floor. “Sort of.”
“Hmm, now I’m sort of on the fence,” Veronica said.
“Well, you know what? Neither of you are anywhere near the fence,” I said, feeling my thin veil of confidence begin to shred. “It’s my damn fence, and no one is on it but me. Can I finish telling this?”
Thatcher rubbed at his face, and I could tell he was laughing behind his hand.
Pig.
“Please,” Aspen said, patting my leg.
“Thank you,” I said, inhaling deeply and letting it go. “Okay. So anyway, we’d never met face to face, and when we hooked up one night, we didn’t know who the other was, and—”
“You almost had sex with some strange guy and didn’t even give names?” Felicia asked.
“I give up,” I said. “Next?”
“No, no,” Thatcher said, dropping his hand. “I need to know the end of the story.”
Seriously?
If it had been a real plate in my hand with some weight to it, I’d have thrown it at him. This night had gone from sexy tease to becoming about as sexy as a bar chart. I crossed my own arms and gave him a long look, no longer caring who was paying attention. I felt deflated.
“The end of the story is that Felicia is right,” I said. “I might want to go to bed with this guy more than I want to breathe, because we can’t even be in the same room without attacking each other, bickering, or driving each other crazy, but nothing about it is smart. Their reactions are spot on.”
“Because sex is temporary,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“And what if it wasn’t?” he said quietly, his expression morphing into something more serious.
My mouth opened but I had nothing. I gaped like a fish, and gripped my arms tighter.
“What—I don’t know what that means,” I managed.
There was a pause as his gaze bored into me, and the room went completely silent. Then he blinked away and everyone appeared to breathe at once.
“I’ll go now,” he said, raising his hand.
“Was Crème Brûlée done?” Aspen asked.
“Crème Brûlée was totally done, yes,” I said, clearing my throat.
“And who are you, tonight?” Aspen asked him, with the head tilt and the cute husky laugh. “I can’t read your nametag.”
“I’ll bet he’s Batman this time,” Doris whispered, poking me in the arm.
“I’m Thatcher,” he said simply.
My eyebrows lifted and alarms went off in my head. The sudden lack of cover in this game felt exposing. What was he doing?
“Ooh, cool name,” Collin said. “I’m using that next time. I always use the same thing.”
“How has your week been, Thatcher?” Aspen asked.
“Well, I met someone,” he said, crossing his arms again, and staring at me.
Shit.
“Oh,” Aspen said, the hint of disappointment in her voice hard to miss.
“And it’s every variety of hot,” he said, not blinking. I felt sweat trickle down my spine. “Chemistry off the chart and everything clicks.”
“But?” Veronica asked.
“But she’s scared,” he said. “Takes off like a little bird every time things get real.”
“A little bird?” I said. Seriously.
“Get real?” Felicia said, pessimism pulling an eyebrow up. “How real can things be in a week?”
“You’d be surprised,” Thatcher said.
“Well, if she’s that skittish,” Veronica said, “then maybe she’s not ready. Maybe she’s not worth the chase right now.”
“Exactly what I was going to say,” I said, pointing, then tucking my hand back under my arms like it was an errant child. “Maybe she has too much crap going on and just knows there are too many things weighing against you.”
“Or maybe she’s like Crème Brûlée over here, and just wants sex,” Doris said.
“What guy doesn’t just want sex?” Veronica asked. “You should be over the moon. It’s like having a steak every night of your life, without having to bother with the salad and the veggies.”
“Maybe I’m tired of just steak,” Thatcher said. “I miss the salad and vegetables.”
No, he’s not using my very own analogy. He’s not. If he mentions crème brûlée, I’m leaving and going to sock his sister in the mouth.
And then what? Explain why?
“So, when this gorgeous full plate of everything—” He stopped and stared right at me. “including the dessert, is literally right in front of me, it’s really irritating to keep walking away hungry.”
“Are you at least getting the steak?” Collin asked, looking at him.
Thatcher gave him a sideways glance. “No.”
“Oh, that’s just wrong,” Collin mumbled.
“So, let me ask you again,” Thatcher directed toward me. “What if the sex wasn’t temporary? What if you let it be what it wants to be and it turned into the best thing in your life?”