Authors: Jules Barnard
Is Mira one of his obligations? His only obligation? I can’t think of anything that would prevent a guy from getting close to women for such a long period of time. Only, that’s what I’ve done, isn’t it? Kept my distance? I’ve had relationships, but I have never let guys know me until Lewis, and only then because he’s seen things I didn’t intend him to.
“You’re not attracted to women anymore?” I tease to lighten the mood. If we’re both new to this, how will we know what to do? Will his obligations allow whatever
this
is?
He glances over with a sardonic smile. “You know that’s not true.” He lifts his eyebrow and I blush. He grins, as if pleased by my reaction, and returns his attention to the road.
“Okay, so you’re attracted to women. Most guys I know usually like to do something with that.”
He gives me a sidelong glance with a crooked smile.
“Right,” I say. “You’ve done things. Hook-ups.”
I hate thinking of him with other women. What if that’s all we’re doing, hooking up? He’s taking me out on a date, which by his definition is rare, but what if I’m still assuming too much, like I did with the A-hole when I didn’t question his frequent trips to his hometown. What if I want more than Lewis does? My heart echoes in my ears and my breathing increases—
“Gen.” Lewis grabs my wrist and frowns. He shifts between looking at the road and watching me with a worried look on his face. “I said I don’t date. That’s why I’m telling you this. You’re not like anyone else. You make me—” He huffs out a sigh, the end of it fizzling on a groan. “—kind of crazy, actually. I want—I just …” He looks at me pleadingly. “Want.”
Lewis pulls into what can only be described as a dive bar. One that may or may not serve food, depending on your definition of food. There’s an image of a trout next to the sign. I’m not sure if that’s part of Rotten Roy’s logo, or an indication of the cuisine available.
We are by far the best-dressed people in the place. In fact, I could have worn flip-flops and fit in at Rotten Roy’s. Lewis guides me to a table in the back. A cackle of male laughter punctuated by a bout of hacking, as if the person overcome with humor is also a heavy smoker, accentuates the white noise of glasses thunking on worn wooden tables, and loud conversation.
Despite the garbled sound, all eyes are on us as we pass. Normally, I avoid this kind of attention, but there’s no avoiding it around Lewis. How can people not stare? Even dudes check him out, likely for different reasons than women, but still.
Neon beer signs decorate the walls. My favorite is the pink pig over the pool table. The pig is holding a stick with
Nice Rack
written above it.
“It’s a little rough in here, but the food’s decent.” Lewis hands me a laminated menu, sticky and curling at the corners. “The guys from work and I come here often.”
Rotten Roy’s seems the type of place to serve low-grade diner fare, but I don’t question his taste. Who doesn’t want greasy food now and then? I scan the menu and order nachos when the waitress arrives.
Time to throw him one of his own questions. “What’s your family like?” Payback is only fair.
He shrugs. “I told you a little about my mom and you’ve met my dad.”
John Sallee. “He was very nice when I came in and asked about the mudder.”
Lewis takes a gulp of the water the waitress set in front of him. “We’re sort of polar opposites.” I raise my brow. “My dad’s a bit of a talker.” And Lewis isn’t, though I get the impression he’s shared more with me than he does with most people. “Hang out with him for thirty minutes and you’ll know his life story. Not that that’s a bad thing. He’s a great dad.” He looks up, as if realizing what he said.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I never knew my dad, so I don’t know what I’m missing.”
A beat passes, then, “Why don’t you know your dad, Gen?” I squirm in my seat. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just—I want to know you.”
I shouldn’t tell him. He’ll think the worst of me.
“I don’t know him, because I don’t know who he is.” I wait and let that sink in. “My mom’s had … she’s had—boyfriends. Lots of them. Do you know what I mean?”
He nods slowly.
I don’t know why I’m telling him something I’ve never told another soul. A part of me wants him to know. Another part wants to push him away before I really get hurt.
I glance at the table and rub a score in the top. “I’m pretty sure my mom lives off her boyfriends,” I say quietly. I tuck a lock of dark hair behind my ear, my hand falling restlessly to the table.
Several seconds of silence pass. I should never have told him. This is it, the moment he ditches me. Panic grips my chest as I realize belatedly that I’m already too invested. If he leaves me, it’s going to hurt like nothing I’ve experienced.
Lewis reaches across the table and squeezes my fingers. “I’m glad your parents got together, or we wouldn’t be here.” He grins, it’s saucy and sexy, and my mouth spreads into a wide smile.
My dirty secret is no longer a secret. Suddenly, I feel lighter and happier than I’ve ever felt before.
We don’t talk about my dad, or my mom, or Lewis’s parents. Our food arrives and my mouth is busy shoveling in nachos and leaning across the table to bite into Lewis’s coronary waiting to happen, also known as The Destroyer—a burger so massive and dripping with grease that I literally fear for his life, enough to help him out with the beast.
Lewis steals a chip attached to two others dripping with cheese and steak from my plate. “What do you think about playing a game of pool?”
I eye the chip drifting into his mouth. “Hey, I had my eye on that one.”
He grins.
The pool table is empty. I drum my fingers. This is it. My chance to kick some Lewis ass. All week—well, really for like the last couple of weeks, but who’s counting?—Lewis has battered my athletic mojo with his mudder boot camp. But give me a stick and a ball and
I will crush him.
“Yeah, sure.” No need to alert him to the ass-whooping I’m about to inflict.
We grab my water and the root beer float he ordered after his heart attack burger—apparently, his stomach is a bottomless pit, which I admire greatly—and select cue sticks from the wall.
Lewis racks up. “Ladies first.”
I’m trying to keep the smug grin off my face, but it’s a challenge. He deserves so much shit for what he’s put me through, but I don’t want to out myself yet. “Why, thank you.”
I casually survey the balls and screw up my face as if uncertain.
Stripes, definitely stripes.
Leaning over, I aim, draw my arm back, and strike the cue ball and V at the end of the table with a crack. Three stripes and one solid go in.
Lewis scrubs his chin. “Played before?”
“Maybe.” I grin, because I can’t hold it in any longer. I don’t plan on giving him a chance to shoot.
I sink three more stripes in corner pockets and prep for my fourth, when I sense Lewis behind me. Trying to distract me?
Nice try, but all that crazy boot-camping trained me to focus. I slide my cue stick back, focus on the triangle of my cue ball, the side bar, and the right corner pocket and … smell him.
“Good luck,” he whispers in my ear, a hairsbreadth away.
I’ve already begun thrusting my stick forward and I can’t stop now, but the angle is off. I strike the cue ball wrong, which chips off the right of the purple 12-ball, that ricochets into no man’s land, the cue ball sinking in the corner pocket.
“Crap.” I gape at him. “You totally did that on purpose.”
He tries to hide a smile, but his lips twitch.
The rest of the game continues in this vein. Me running the tip of my stick up Lewis’s calf while he’s making his shot, Lewis grazing his knuckles over my ass when I’m making mine. I win, but it’s a close thing with all the groping—I mean,
distractions.
We’re parked in the chalet’s driveway and I’m searching for my keys, because no one ever remembers to turn on the porch light and I won’t find my keys in the pitch-black Tahoe night if I step out of the car.
New house rule: the last person to leave flips on the light or pays in dishwashing duties.
By the time I find what I’m looking for, Lewis has my car door open and is waiting for me. We walk to the entrance, and suddenly I’m nervous.
Will he ask to come in? Should I wait for him to, or offer first? I really don’t want this night to end. To say I’m attracted to Lewis is an understatement, but he’s also fun and I feel close to him after sharing the truth about my mom.
In the dark of the front door, Lewis leans down and kisses me gently on the lips. “So, can I see you later this week?”
“Yeah,” I say dreamily. Wait—later? “You don’t want to come in?” That didn’t come out as casual as I intended, but he threw me with his attempt to leave so quickly.
He glances at the door, seemingly conflicted. “It’s our first date, so … I’ll call you soon, okay?” He turns to go.
What the eff?
“Lewis, the rule of nothing more than a kiss on the first date only applies to people who haven’t done more than kiss.” I grin suggestively. And why am I suddenly a desperate chick trying to get laid?
Oh yeah, because I am.
He grips the porch banister, his expression serious. “I want to do this right, Gen.”
We just ate at a fish shack and played gropey pool, I think, but don’t say. I raise my hand, bewildered. “And the right way is waiting for the next date?”
He shrugs one shoulder, his face uncertain.
“Fine.” I spin and run into my bedroom. I tear off my dress and grab sweat pants and a T-shirt from the top of the hamper. They could be clean, they could be dirty. I’m not even sure they’re mine.
I don’t care.
It turns out the bottoms are Cali’s, given they’re four inches too short, which I could have determined had I bothered to flip on the bedroom light.
What I’m about to do isn’t smart or cautious. It’s downright brazen. But nothing about Lewis leaving feels right, and ever since I started going with what feels right, things seem to be working out.
I want him to stay. With me. Tonight. I’ve never wanted anything more.
I run back and wobble against the doorframe, crossing my legs at the ankle to hide the heels I’m still wearing. Lewis must have stuck around for a second after I left, because he’s only now reaching the Jeep.
“Lewis.” He turns. “Date’s over.” I wave my hand down my wrinkled, too-short sweats. “Want to come in?”
For a second his face is blank, then it shifts into something focused and resolute. He shuts the car door, clicks the key fob, making the headlights flash, and walks past me into the house.
In my haste to tear off my clothes, I didn’t notice the dim light glowing from Cali and Jaeger’s tent. No sign of Tyler though, so at least I have the house to myself. Not that I’ll need all of it.
“I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, but do you mind if we hang out in my bedroom?” Lewis’s eyebrows rise, a hit of a smile on his face.
I guess I’m not fooling anyone. “C-Cali’s boyfriend, Jaeger—he’s staying with us,” I stammer, because damn. I don’t want him to think I’m like this with everyone. The more I’m with Lewis, the more I want to jump him, and kiss him, and touch him.
It’s totally his fault. It’s been like this from the beginning and that fateful dinner party. He rocked my peace of mind, broke down decade-old walls. “Space is tight, so they’re sleeping in a tent outside.”
Lewis eyes the tent through the window and nods in appreciation. “Nice.”
“Yeah, Jaeger’s kind of a big guy. Anyway—” I yank his arm and draw him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind us. He sits on the bed, because my room is the size of a closet and like Jaeger, Lewis isn’t small. The mattress springs squeak under his weight, my queen-sized mattress looking like a twin with him on it.
“Do you want anything to drink? Eat?” Guess I should have thought of that before I locked him in my room.
He rests his forearms on his thighs. “I’m good. Thanks.” He’s watching me and I get the feeling he’s looking at everything, a sly glance to my chest, my waist, my legs, returning to my face. I turned on the light, because leaving it off would have been an act of desperation—I would never do
that.
He’s getting an attractive view of a wrinkled tee and sweats, but somehow I don’t think he minds. My heart speeds up, breasts perking. I swallow and take a deep breath.
Calm, peace, serenity
—I will not hyperventilate at the thought of Lewis in my room staring at my nipples through my threadbare shirt and lacy bra.
I sit next to him, my gaze straying to his mouth like it’s the focus of the universe. “So, what do you want to do?” I drag my eyes up.
He’s watching my lips. He leans forward and kisses me, his hand cupping my neck.
My head goes dizzy.
“Is this okay?” His normally smooth voice is scratchy and deep, his mouth hovering.
What?
“Yes—” I lean forward and press my lips to his.
Like a tornado touching down, everything that was once still and tentative turns into a whirlwind of motion. I’m tugging on his shirt, he’s sliding his hands up my top—we’re falling back on the bed.
I manage to wrestle his sweater off, but I’m foiled by the buttons of his shirt. While I’m yanking at those, he brushes his hand over my forehead, pushing hair off my face. He looks in my eyes. “Gen, we don’t have to do this. Right now. I can wait. I would wait.”
No guy has ever said he’d wait to have sex with me. I would have liked it if a few of them had. A couple of times, I wasn’t ready to take the relationship to that level, but I went along with it because I wanted a boyfriend. Most of that was my fault for not speaking up.
Waiting is the last thing I want right now.
“What if I don’t want to? I never cared about this—it was just a part of—” I’m waving my hand around like a crazy person. “And now you’re telling me you don’t want to?” My voice is too high, but it’s difficult to speak while I’m hyperventilating from hormones and the fear he’ll put the brakes on like he did the night at the boathouse.
I start to sit up and he covers me with his body, mouth on my neck. “I want it,” he says beneath my ear.