Flirty Thirty (Nerdy Thirties Book 1) Page 5

  Yes, this closet is going to make it on my bucket list.

  “I’m analyzing myself,” he says, stealing my attention away from the rack of Prada bags I’m currently coveting. “Trying to decide if I’m being reasonable or too picky.”

  “Have you reached a verdict?”

  He flicks the light off and heads back into the main suite. I silently say goodbyes to the shoes while he takes a stance in front of the window similar to the one he used in the formal.

  “This view,” he comments. “I expected something a bit more… well…” We simultaneously tilt our heads, which causes us both to grin, and only me to blush.

  He lets out a gravelly sigh. “Just more.”

  He has a point; the view here is equal to staring at the side of a building wall, though this is mountainous rock instead of brick. Compared to the view of the formal, yes… there is something left to be desired.

  “Can I be honest?” I ask him.

  “Please.”

  “When buying a house, there are two things to consider,” I say, turning toward him. His blue eyes are so intent on listening that my brain stutters. “You will not find the perfect house, but you will find something close to it. It’s just a matter of figuring out what imperfections you can live with.”

  His jaw clicks, and he thoughtfully nods at the window. “Wise words.” He slides a hand into his back pocket. “Mind if I take some pictures?”

  “Go for it.”

  He holds the phone out, camera facing me, his lips forming into a playful grin. I shove his arm down and shake my head.

  “Of the house.” My heart adds an extra beat when my fingers get the dose of warmth from their short and sweet contact with his skin. I’m reminded of the sweet way he wiped the whipped cream from my nose, the way my breath disappeared for half a moment of perfection.

  He doesn’t take many shots of the house, even as we make our way through the second level and the main. He pauses in the kitchen, setting his phone on the island and peering inside one of the ovens.

  “Seeing if your head fits in there?” I tease.

  He comes out with an achingly sexy smile on his face. “Well, besides the bedroom, the kitchen is my favorite room in a home.”

  “Because?” I ask, noticing he used the word “home” not “house.” It’s a very family word; I usually only hear it from buyers who are couples. Rare in a billionaire bachelor.

  “Food,” he says as if it’s an obvious thing. “Preparing food, cooking food, baking food, eating food.” He spreads his arms wide. “This is where the magic happens.”

  I bite back a laugh. “And the bedroom?”

  “Magic happens there, too.” He drops his arms, settling one of his hands on the oven door before pushing it back into place.

  “Can’t help yourself, can you?” I say, shaking my head.

  “You just set it up so nicely.” His eyebrow twitches. “The honest answer? Sleep. Sleep happens there. Rest, rejuvenation… the start of a new day and the end of an old one. All in the bedroom.”

  He takes a deliberate step toward me, and a rush flows through my skin, as if I’ve been dipped head first into warm oil and set out in the sun to dry.

  “Trying to wax poetic?” I try to tease, yet my voice has taken on its own version of staccato.

  He shakes his head, blond hair tousling with the movement. “I like the idea of new days,” he says, stepping ever closer. I feel as if I should step back, keep the distance between us the same, but my feet have melted into the floor. “That there’s hope to start over when things don’t necessarily go your way. Like when you hope you find that woman who will make every day worth getting out of bed… or staying in it. Whatever the mood calls for.”

  He stops in front of me, his stare heating up my already warm cheeks. His eyes explore my face, examining from the top of my crown, over my cheek bones, and down my nose to my lips. I feel like I should be self-conscious about it somehow—in fact, I expect the dose of insecurity—but…I’ve never felt so desirable in my life. My thoughts start to escape me, and I have to strain to focus on our conversation. What were we talking about? Bedrooms? Kitchens? No… mornings. We’re on how he’s a morning person. Just another thing we’re polar opposites in.

  A grin forms on his lips, letting that dimple arrive just in time to melt me completely.

  “And food,” he says, his body now a whisper away. “I like the idea of food in the morning.”

  There is a likely chance that I am bewitched, because only a person under a spell would kiss a man who equally scares her as he does intrigue her. My bare feet have to push up on their very tiptoes to reach, and even then, my palm smooths over the back of his head to coax him to meet me halfway. He covers my mouth, and my lips aren’t slow or shy—they are ready for some real aggressive action which his lips are more than happy to oblige. “Bewitched” doesn’t even cover the electrified current running through my frazzled heart; my thoughts aren’t even here on earth at the moment.

  I feel his palm at the small of my back, reeling me in to the hard plate of his chest. He tugs at my bottom lip over and over, the softness of his mouth combined with the rough scruff of his chin elicit uninhibited moans from deep down in my fluttering stomach. My fingers curl into his shirt, the touch of this man annihilating every rational thought I know I should have. He’s soft, he’s rough, he’s hard and warm and he’s satisfying a long stint of loneliness and at the same time never quenching my thirst. I claw at him, wishing I hadn’t chosen a pencil skirt when picking my outfit.

  The fingers on my back squeeze me tighter for just a moment before he pulls back. His lips leave mine so suddenly that neither of us breathe right away. I let out a tiny sigh, embarrassment starting to creep its way up my neck, but his lips find mine once more in a softer, gentler embrace. It’s only for a second, but it takes my breath away just the same.

  He does it again. And another time. It’s almost as if he keeps talking himself in and out of the decision. A relieved smile slips onto my lips. It’s good to know I wasn’t completely out of line. Then again, he’d kissed me before we’d said a handful of words to each other. It’s been at least twenty minutes before I lost control.

  I search for something, anything to say; I don’t blame him now for just taking off the last time this happened. How do you put a voice to a moment like this? How can you follow it up?

  “I have a date tonight,” I blurt out, picking probably the worst possible words I could have.

  His eyebrows lift. “What about tomorrow night?”

  I take a deep breath, letting it out through my tingly lips. “Depends on how well this one goes.”

  He laughs, and his hand falls from my back as I step away for some much needed clarity. “Oh, I already know how it’ll go.”

  “Oh really?” My fingers fumble down my skirt as I attempt to straighten out not only my clothing, but my hormones. “Care to tell me?”

  His head tilts in a playful, yet sexy manner, and he reaches for his phone. “Wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.” He slides his thumb around the screen. “Six-thirty tomorrow night work for you?”

  Not willing to give him the satisfaction of knocking me clean out of my shoes—if I were wearing any—I collect myself and say, “If I don’t have plans with Todd already.” I have no idea if that’s the right name.

  “That’s a yes, then.”

  “It’s a maybe.”

  He slides his phone into his back pocket, then closes the gap we’ve put between us. I find myself slowly falling back into dangerous territory. He waits there, playing chicken with me until I finally break.

  “What?”

  A smile cracks on his lips. “Just hedging my bets.” He steps around me, heading out of the kitchen and down to the basement.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I call after him.

  He turns with that dimple in his cheek. “That tonight, when you’re with him, I guarantee… you’ll be thinking of me.”

 
7

  Blind Date Fate

  As much as I’d hate to give Cooper the satisfaction of victory, I think he’s earned it. Steve—his name is Steve, but Todd was close—crunches into another bite of his taco, breaking me from yet another train of thought that brought me to this afternoon in the kitchen.

  It wasn’t even a related topic, either. I struck up a conversation about dental floss, something I refused to believe would bring me to thoughts of Cooper. But the dental floss reminded me of the mint leaves logo, which turned into reminders of watering my plants out front. My thoughts then ran off with Tom and how he ate the last of my tulips when I let him out the other day. The cat needs to go on a diet, and I tried to think of what ingredients were in his food. I laughed silently at the thought of him turning away from dietary meal plans, and that he’d much rather go for whatever I had in my fridge. Which brought me to the lasagna I meant to put in the oven. Then I saw Cooper sticking his head inside the one at the showing today. The oven door closing, his slow, steady strides toward me, that dimple teasing me just seconds before…

  “Oh shoot,” Jules says, her eyes on her phone. I wonder when my thoughts wandered off again; I don’t remember her pulling it out. “Katie says Lucy’s out of diapers. I forgot to pick some up this afternoon.”

  Nate, my brother in law, wipes his chin free from his meal and sets the napkin on top of the table. “She needs one now?”

  “She’s currently in one of Claire’s, and it’s drowning her.” Julie turns to us, the corners of her mouth dipped down. “I’m sorry… we should probably run…”

  “Please,” Steve says. “Go take care of Lucy.”

  I nod, reassuring my sister and the concerned look in her eyes. I wonder if she knows this isn’t going very well. Though, that’s hardly Steve’s fault.

  “Okay…” She rises from her seat, Nate holding her chair for her. I tilt my head at the insignificant action, realizing just how significant it really is. Cooper did the same thing for me at our brunch.

  Jules leans over to give me a hug, whispering in my ear. “Talk to you tonight.”

  I smile and nod against her cheek. Talk to her about what, I have no clue. I don’t know how much of Cooper I should divulge, if anything. She’d only get excited, encourage me to date him exclusively, get serious, say yes to proposals, and have lots and lots of babies. As interested as I am in getting closer to Cooper for a fun fling, he’s not interested in only that, and honestly I should find a way to back out of tomorrow night before things go farther with him than they already have. Easier to preach than to practice, I’m afraid, especially when I keep thinking about that knee-wobbling kiss.

  They leave the busy restaurant, and I put a smile on my face and hope to heavens I at least look like I’m enjoying myself.

  “I figured something like that would happen,” Steve jokes, nodding at my sister and brother-in-law’s retreating backs. “My sister always has a sitter excuse when she sets me up.”

  A little laugh floats from my lips. “You get set up a lot, too?”

  He leans in, his thick brows twitching as if he’s sharing some type of secret. “Always.”

  “At least I know I’m not with a blind date novice.” I pick up my glass of water, attempting a flirtatious tone and hoping it stays with me throughout the rest of the meal.

  “So,” he says, leaning back in his seat and settling in with his taco. “How do you like selling houses?”

  I shrug, smile fading at the change in subject, knowing it will inevitably bring on thoughts of Cooper. “It’s interesting, for sure. Never the same clients twice.”

  “What’s the worst client you’ve had?”

  I clasp my fingers together to rest my chin on, toying with my bottom lip as I think on it. The question feels like part of an interview, even though I’ve been asked it many times, and with each new prospective dating partner, I’ve had a different answer. It’s never bothered me before; I enjoyed the light-hearted, puddle deep conversations that surround the first date. I know all the answers, I know how to move my lips and kink my eyebrow at just the right moments. Steve isn’t even that bad to look at—he’s got great hair, strong arms, and he’s not bad company either. It’s just… lacking for some unapparent reason, and I feel as if I should blame a Mr. Cooper Sterling for that.

  “The one I had today,” I say, bitterness lacing into my tone. Steve’s bushy eyebrow tilts upward, his mouth too full to vocally ask me to continue. “He’s a picky billionaire, and very… blunt in his opinions.”

  He swallows. “That’s a bad thing?”

  “Annoying, I suppose.” I’m lying through my teeth.

  “Well, I hope for your sake he finds the right house soon.”

  He said house—a bachelor thing to say. I give the response way too much thought for what it’s worth. I wish I could feel comfortable enough to ask what I really want to know—what is he looking for? Cooper came out and said it, his directness at first, surprising, but in hindsight… refreshing. But as I’m not looking for anything serious, I feel I can’t talk about serious things with Steve.

  I internally sigh at the fact that Cooper was so right, and I’ve spent most of the hour thinking of him, and I’m most likely destined to do so the rest of the evening. I take another sip of water, put on a polite smile, and try to do my best with the small talk I’m not so sure I like anymore.

  “So… What do you do?”

  ***

  My heavy front door clicks shut behind me, and I consider the kiss that just took place on my porch as I swing the deadbolt into its nightly position. My lips don’t feel as if any attention was given, which is probably an accurate description. I think Steve was trying to make things quick, and the peck was more out of obligation than desire.

  I fling my purse up on the hook by my door and slip out of my heels. I don’t blame him in the slightest; I was just as dull of company as he was, if not more-so.

  Hooking my fingers into the sling-backs of my heels, I pad my way through to the kitchen to stash my doggie bag, only to be stopped short by a dark gray-covered bottom.

  “Hello?” I say, and the refrigerator raider peeks from under her extended arm.

  “Whoa…” Holland says, straightening her spine. “9:15. Someone had fun.”

  I roll my eyes at my best friend’s sarcastic smile and open the snack cupboard. “Looking for these?”

  She practically drools a stain onto her pink tank top, reaching for the chocolate frosting and graham crackers in my hand. I pull back and gesture to my plushy couch where all our emotional eating happens. She grabs the milk while I get a couple of cups.

  “Is Warren helicopter spousing again?” I ask, flumping into the cushions. Holland plops down next to me, setting the milk on the coffee table.

  “He cleansed the entire house. If it’s not baby book approved, it doesn’t cross the threshold.”

  I pull the graham cracker sleeve open and quickly hand her one. “Even the cookie stash?”

  She nods, crunching into the cracker. “All four of them. You’d think he was having this baby.”

  “Well, he did help make it.”

  She snatches the frosting from me. “If you’re going to calmly make logical points then I can no longer call you my best friend.”

  I smirk and lean back into the cushions, indulging in the sweet treat after a dud of a night.

  “I’m finally past the puking part,” Holland says, filling up a spoon with a glob of frosting. “I want to eat. I’ve missed chocolate. Raspberry sauce. Cake.”

  “I have all three of those things.” I grin. “My birthday was just yesterday.”

  She turns a pair of brown bulbous eyes in my direction, spoon hanging from her mouth. I laugh at her obviously apologetic expression and dip my own spoon in.

  “It’s fine. I had an excellent day all by myself.” Well, and my cats. Not to mention the drive-by kissing I started the day off with.

  “I’m horrible,” she croaks. “I’m forgetting
everything, but I wasn’t going to forget that. I wasn’t.” She grabs at her highlighted hair that needs a retouch, but the doctor advised against it, so Warren put his foot down. “I will make it up to you.”

  “Just help me eat that cake.”

  She lifts her reddened eyes. “Tonight?”

  I snort around my spoon and shove off the couch. I’ve spent enough time around pregnant women to know that they are serious about food, that watery eyes happen for no reason, and they make for great company (and birth control).

  “You don’t have to…” she mumbles from the couch, watching me fish the cake from the fridge.

  “It’s good timing, actually,” I admit, slapping my left butt cheek. “I need to add more cushion to my cushion.”

  Holland gives me a weird look, graham cracker dusting her lips. “Care to elaborate?”

  “It’s been an eventful couple of days.”

  She swivels in her seat so she doesn’t have to crane her neck. “Ooh, my present to you… we’re going to only focus on your drama this time.”

  Since I rarely have drama to focus on, I take her up on the offer. “You know how you loved the fact that Warren wanted to marry you right away and you were going to spend all your fun twenties experiencing things together and then have babies at thirty and grow old and have a porch swing and what-have-you?”

  Her lips turn down in the corner. “This is not the deal I just laid out for you.”

  I lick a stripe of raspberry sauce off my finger and roll my eyes. “I was saying that I think I’ve met your husband’s emotional doppelganger.”

  She nods toward the large slice I’m dishing for myself. “And you want to fatten up so he finds you undesirable, is that it? Not quite ready to settle down and too chicken to tell him?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”