What I Need

Jesus. What I wouldn’t give to kiss that mouth right now. She’s so damn pretty.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Why the hell did I think coming over here was a good idea?

Her eyes lower to my uniform. She clears her throat. “Did you just get off work?” she asks.

I nod, pushing thoughts away I can’t make happen right now, then I jerk my chin. “You?” I question, brow furrowing. “Are you a nurse or something?”

I feel like a dickhead for asking this, considering how many times Riley and I have slept together, but truth be told, we didn't do much talking last weekend. If Riley wasn't offering information, I wasn't asking for it. Not because I didn't want it though.

My mouth was just busy doing other things.

“Hopefully in a year I will be,” she replies, tugging on the bottom of her top and then smoothing it out. “I'm in nursing school. I had clinical today, hence the scrubs.” Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “I hate wearing them,” she shares. “They’re so ugly.”

I laugh under my breath, arguing, “I'm not hating them one damn bit,” then flashing her a smile when her eyes widen.

“You like my scrubs?”

“What did I just say?”

“You said you didn't hate them.”

“I think you can translate that to me feeling the opposite,” I share. “Unless you need to hear me say it.”

She drags her teeth across her lip, blinking slowly, then quickly looks away while shaking her head.

I know that look. I know what she's fighting against.

Riley wants to hear me say I like her scrubs. She wants to hear me say why I like them too. But she doesn't want to want it. That's the problem.

Hers, not mine. `Cause I have zero fucking problems sharing my thoughts on Riley's uniform or anything else I like about her.

Another part of the look she's giving me? Shock. I’ve surprised her.

Riley's acting like the thought of me digging the outfit she's in right now is something she can't even fathom, which leads to me thinking that dickhead she's staying with has never said anything similar to her.

That pisses me off. He's touching all that every night and he's not appreciating it? What else doesn't this cocksucker do?

I don't waste any time finding out.

“What's he cooking for you?”

Riley cuts her eyes back to mine. Her brows pinch together. “What?” she asks, looking confused.

I tip my chin at her cart. “You’re going home after this for dinner, right? What's he cooking for you?”

She stares up at me. “Uh . . . nothing, I don't think. Why?”

“He doesn't cook for you?”

A laugh bubbles in her throat. “Not unless you want to count ordering takeout,” she tells me, solidifying my opinion of this prick.

She wants to be friends with me? Ok. Part of this new arrangement should be me pointing out all the ways I'd be better for her.

Seems like the friendly thing to do.

“I'd cook for you,” I share, letting some arrogance dance on my tongue, because fuck it. If she’s going to know what all I’d do for her, I want her knowing how good I’d do it.

I watch for her reaction, expecting her smile to fade. Maybe her gaze to harden since I'm taking this conversation there. But neither happens.

With doe-like eyes blinking in wonder, she asks through the softest voice, “Why?”

I pull in a slow breath, staring into those flames and letting them burn me up.

Why? Simple.

“`Cause a girl like you should be having dinner made for her sometimes,” I reply, giving her nothing but honesty. “You shouldn't be giving to a man who isn't man enough to give back.”

“I don’t mind cooking all the time,” she’s quick to inform me. “The way I was raised, it’s normal for the woman in the relationship to take on that role. My mom cooks for my dad all the time.”

“This has nothing to do with taking on roles,” I argue back. “It’s about showing your appreciation for someone and doing something for them they’re always doing for you. Giving some of that good back.”

She shrugs and keeps a soft smile. “I really don’t mind cooking.”

“You’re not hearing me, darlin’,” I inform her.

Her smile fades as she slowly draws in a breath.

Riley stands taller, suddenly looking uneasy. She grips the handles on her cart. “I should go,” she says, backing away to make room so she can get around me.

I know why she’s retreating. And I could let her go. I could let this go, but I don’t.

I asked for this? No. She fucking asked for this.

I bridge the gap and box her in again, then I move to the side of my cart to get closer and take hold of the end of hers, preventing her from moving any further away.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” I question, watching her eyes flicker wider.

“Is . . . this how what’s going to be?” she asks.

“We see each other around and I say something that gets to you the way you don’t want it to get to you, you freak, then you take off acting like you don’t want what you just asked of me two days ago?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You wanted this,” I remind her. “Wanted us to be friends, right?”

“Yes.”

“This is what comes with being friends with me, Riley. I joke around. I flirt a little. And when a nickname sticks with a girl, it sticks hard. Now I get you not wanting me to call you that around people who might be suspicious, and honestly, I thought you got me when I didn’t feel the need to assure you that’ll never happen `cause you know I’m not a dick. I guess I was wrong there. So here’s your assurance—that’ll never happen. You asked me not to say anything, and as long as I’m not being asked about it, I won’t. And like I said to you before, I don’t like the decision you made but you made it so I’m gonna respect it, meaning if I’m ever around you and you’re with him, I’ll stick with first names only. But babe, those two scenarios do not apply right now.”