Flirty Thirty (Nerdy Thirties Book 1) Page 6

  Her mouth splits open with light laughter. “What’d you expect from a guy Julie set you up with?”

  “Oh, I’m not talking about him.” I slide the cake back into the fridge and carry the two plates over. “I’m talking about Cooper Sterling.”

  “Who’s Cooper Sterling?” she says around a forkful of cake that goes into her mouth the moment I hand her the plate.

  “You know the beautiful guy who runs by my house every morning?” Holland is the only person privy to that dirty little secret.

  “You finally spoke to him?”

  “More than spoke.” I sigh, stabbing into the raspberry filling. “He happens to be my newest buyer.”

  An excited grin forms on her lips. “Keep going. I’ll eat.”

  I get her up to speed as best I can, hoping that I put the appropriate tone to each encounter, including both impromptu kisses, the first by him, the second by me. Hopefully, with Holland being so willing to give her honest opinion these days, I’ll get just that.

  “It’s a lot of money,” I tell her after voicing the concern I have of meeting with him on a more frequent basis. “What’s a little harmless flirting, right?”

  Holland tilts her head, giving me a soft smile. “Do you have any idea how jealous I am right now?”

  I jolt away with a laugh, surprised by the reaction. “Of what exactly?”

  “A man tells you he wants a family, kids, and he’s interested in you. He called you gorgeous and he’s straightforward, unafraid to express what he feels when he feels it. I’d say that’s pretty rare.”

  “Even if it’s everything I don’t want? It’s a little frightening.”

  She shakes her head, leaning forward to grab onto my ankle. “I think it’s exciting.” She lets out a sigh. “That kind of excitement doesn’t last long. I say embrace the hell out of it.”

  “It’ll never work,” I tell her, propping my half guzzled glass of milk on my knee. “I can’t be in the picture he’s painted for himself. I don’t want that.”

  Her eyebrow tilts. “Still?”

  “It’s okay for me to not want marriage or kids.”

  “I know, but…” Her eyes drop to her stomach, and a sadness crosses her expression. “People change.”

  I let my gaze fall to her stomach as well, the baby bump small, but noticeable. “You still want all of that, right? You always have.”

  “Of course.” She sniffs and waves her hair back. “He was upfront with you. Be that with him.”

  “I kind of was.”

  “Be really upfront.” She laughs. “If he wants to take you out, he’s got to know where you stand exactly, and that you’re not going to budge.”

  I drop my hands into my lap. I’m assuming we’ll be in a public place tomorrow night. Dinner, most likely. Maybe somewhere fancy with his bottomless wallet.

  Sounds like the perfect opportunity to take Holland up on her advice.

  8

  Pajama Mama

  “You ready to sign on your new place?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Davenport look as gray as the siding on their first home I’m about to help them purchase. I bite back a laugh at their nerves and invite them into the conference room where the loan officer is sitting with a large stack of papers and a glass jar full of pens.

  “Relax,” I tell them. “We’ll talk you through everything.”

  Mrs. Davenport lets out a small squeak, and her husband grabs onto her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. They slowly turn to one another, take a synchronized deep breath, then laugh at how ridiculous the other looks. My eyebrows twitch upward as I ponder over the exchange; how natural some couples seem at first, but how different it is when kids come into the picture and interrupt it all.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. “Jen will get you started,” I tell them, nodding to the loan officer. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  They smile and I step outside the office and answer.

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to call,” I tease, heart scampering in my chest in anticipation to hear Cooper’s response.

  “You are my realtor, aren’t ya? I have this card here that says you are.”

  His voice is light, easy, fun. My kryptonite.

  “Is this a business-related call?”

  There’s a pause in which I imagine that dimple creasing in his cheek, the whites of his teeth showing ever-so-slightly with that boyish grin.

  “There should be a package on your desk.”

  “If that is a euphemism, you’re going to get me in a lot of trouble.”

  He laughs. “I need you to put it on for tonight.”

  I perk up, feet itching to climb the flight of stairs to my office just above me. “You did not just buy an outfit you want to see me in.”

  “Hmm… it’s more of a suggestion, really.”

  “Just when I think you’re different than every other billionaire businessman.”

  He laughs again, and my stomach soars with the sound. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  I push the off button and toy with my phone, trying to get my heart to calm and my mind to stop racing. There’s not a chance I’m wearing what he sent; not only because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but I doubt it will fit. I’m definitely not a one size fits all kind of gal.

  I shake my head out of it, smooth my blazer, and head into the conference room. The clock overhead ticks the first second into a very long eight hours of fluttering anticipation.

  ***

  I pace a hole through my bedroom floor, holding my phone to my ear and yelling a very long message to Holland.

  “You have exactly two minutes to call me back or else it’ll be too late!”

  I click off and toss the cell onto the bed by the opened UPS box. “This is crazy,” I tell Tom who is lazily lying in the late day sun beams on my floor. “He can’t be serious.”

  I pull at the fleece pajama bottoms—that surprisingly fit with the drawstring—and the graphic t-shirt that says “Cozy King.” So much for the public place, fancy restaurant guy I pegged him for. Like with every other conversation we’ve had, he skips the formality and goes right into putting me in lounge wear. I don’t care how much it smells like him, or how much it reminds me of his soft lips and scruffy chin and how, yes, my stomach cannot find a settled position just from the thought that maybe these are his actual clothes.

  My hands flop down to my sides. “No,” I say to my sleeping cat. “I’m not doing it.”

  I barely get a hold of the hem to yank the shirt off my body when the doorbell rings. He’s early. He’s an early man. Why does that turn me on so much?

  I untangle myself from the material and march down the stairs. I make sure it’s loud enough so he knows exactly what mood I’m in before I even open the door.

  After fumbling with the lock, I swing it open and give him the best glare I can muster while simultaneously swooning at his trimmed chin and his matching pajama set.

  “Explain,” I bite out.

  His eyes scan down my body, his lips twitching upward at the hitched hand on my hip. When he gets back to my face, I give him a look that reiterates my previous request.

  “It suits you.” He slides his hands into the soft pockets at his side. “You’ll have to give me a minute here.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  “To catch my breath.”

  Though the words are genuine, if not a little romance movie-esk, the effect of they have on me is a tad unexpected. My skin feels on fire, burning from somewhere deep inside my chest and simmering up to the surface. I hide it with a playful, derisive snort.

  “I take it we’re staying in tonight?”

  He shakes his head, reaching out for my hand. “Nope.”

  Electric shocks skyrocket through my midsection the moment he entwines his fingers with mine, making me fumble over my words. “Hold on. We’re going out in these?”

  His smile deepens at my free hand pulling at the fleece. “Do you have something against sleepwe
ar?”

  “No…” I draw out, planting my feet firmly in my doorway as he starts leading me to his truck. “I just don’t make a habit of it outside of these walls.”

  “I promise that where we’re going, you’ll want to be comfortable.”

  “I can be comfortable in a dress.”

  He grins and drops my hand, sending a cold breeze over my palm. “All right.”

  My head tilts on its side. “That easy? You’re just going to let me change?”

  “I’m not going to force you. But I won’t be changing.” He pinches the cotton material loosely hanging over his abs. “This is exactly the wardrobe the night calls for.”

  I purse my lips together, biting back a grin and a curse I’d like to drop on him. He’s good at the reverse psychology—I consider changing for only a second before deciding to grab my purse and lock the door behind us. I shake my head at the victorious expression he’s donning.

  “The gloating smile isn’t the most attractive thing,” I lie through my teeth. He laughs, claiming my hand once more and swinging it between our bodies as we make our way to the passenger side of the truck. He gave it a good run with a hose, but I can tell he abandoned the idea of a professional wash with flecks of stubborn mud clinging to the underside of the door.

  “So… are you going to remain mysterious?” I ask him after I buckle in and he starts up the engine. “Or do I get to know what it is we’re doing?”

  He presses his lips together thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever been described as mysterious.”

  I drop my jaw in mock shock. “Really? But you’re so reserved.”

  He chuckles and pulls the truck into gear, the muscles in his forearm flexing and teasing me in the sunset light.

  “I unfortunately got called in to work tonight. I was hoping you would tagalong.”

  My shoulders slump in disappointment, brows pulling inward. “You work in your pajamas?”

  “Sometimes,” he admits, giving me a side glance. “This particular meeting requires it.”

  I shake my head at him. More mystery. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “There’s a wrinkle right above your nose that is absolutely gorgeous. It seems to only pop up when I say something you aren’t expecting.” He grins and nods toward me. “Like right now, for instance.”

  Warmth creeps through my neck, and I quickly put a hand over the wrinkle. A girlish grin threatens on my lips, and I chase it away with a laugh and look out the window. “Have you been described as unpredictable?”

  “That one I’ve heard a lot.”

  He takes us into the city, turning toward the cluster of office and news buildings, basically the hub of our community. My building used to be this far North until Garrison decided to move it closer to the suburban homes most of our clients find appealing. It’s helpful for the commute—I spent double on gas at the other building. Now we’re in a much more central location.

  The sun ducks behind the mountain range we just left behind us, casting us in a soft blue light that, if possible, makes Cooper look even handsomer. The blue in his eyes seems to intensify just before he turns into a parking garage. He pulls into a spot reserved for him, Cooper Sterling, Executive Parking in reflective white paint on the cement wall.

  He shuts the diesel engine off, instantly quieting the garage.

  “Here we are.”

  “Is this your office?” I ask, cranking the door open. His eyes flick to my hand before he holds a single finger up.

  “Wait right there.”

  I let go of the handle, leaving the door open while he climbs out. He’s tall enough that I can see his blond head bob around the truck, and I take a moment to admire the naturally highlighted strands. Most of my teenage bedroom was adorned in blond heartthrobs. I’ve always been drawn to the sun-kissed look, but have found it rare in the men I’ve come in contact with in reality.

  He steps in front of my door, and I let go of my thoughts so they don’t sneak their way off my tongue.

  “May I?” he offers, gesturing to my waist.

  My first thought is, not a chance. The cake I devoured the night before traveled to that exact spot, and I don’t revel in the idea of him touching such squishy areas.

  My eyes drift to his very sturdy-looking shoulders, and I end up deciding to hell with it. I swivel sideways and hook my palms atop his shoulders while he wraps his strong hands around my waist. He plucks me from my seat as if I weigh 100 pounds less than I actually do and ever-so-gently sets me on my feet next to his. I like it here—sharing body heat and feeling feminine and beautiful when I rarely feel this way. It weakens my ability to think, so I release my hold on his shoulders, and he reluctantly lets go of my waist.

  “Thank you,” he says, his breath warm and minty over my head.

  “For…?”

  He smirks. “That was more for me than it was for you.”

  His eyes drift up from my lips, and I push a hand over the nose wrinkle I hope I won’t be hyper aware of now that he’s pointed it out. I’ll just have to learn to be perfectly unsurprised by him.

  I let out a breath and take his hand, noticing the twitch in his dimple the moment I do. Perhaps that is his “nose wrinkle,” and I intend to be as unpredictable as he is to test my theory.

  He leads us past another executive spot, that one saying it’s reserved for a Robert Sterling.

  “Related?” I ask, nodding to the white paint. He follows my gaze and nods.

  “My brother.”

  “Older? Younger?”

  “Younger.” He grins, stepping up to an elevator and inserting a key. “He’s coming up on his thirtieth. I plan to make it as torturous for him as he did for me.”

  “What was so bad about yours?”

  We step inside the private elevator, and Cooper sticks his key in again before hitting a button for one of the upper levels.

  “Paid for company.”

  “Escort service?”

  His head falls back as he laughs. “Not quite as scandalous. It was a just the moment I realized that my life wasn’t all that I’d wanted it to be, especially when I had made no genuine connections to any other human being. Not everyone can handle my social awkwardness.” His eyes meet mine. “Very depressing day.”

  I think back to only a few days prior, to my own thirtieth. No paid for company, but I didn’t exactly want company at all. It was a fabulous day.

  “We really are such polar opposites,” I tell him, looking up at the numbers ticking through the floors. “My thirtieth was the moment I realized my life was everything I wanted it to be.”

  “You spent it with friends? Family?”

  “My cats.”

  He chuckles. “Just when I think you couldn’t possibly be more captivating, you make even small talk something worth discussing.”

  Is this small talk? It feels deeper to me, like tiny sparks of light making who he is much clearer, but perhaps to someone like him, this is small. I find myself involuntarily inching closer to him, my cheek grazing the sleeve of his pajama shirt. I can feel the small amount of contact all the way into my toes.

  The elevator hits the level we need, and the doors open to a very loud studio. There are so many people with headsets, clipboards, and cell phones running around a giant set of beds. My eyebrows rise, and I look up to Cooper and wait for him to explain exactly what I’m tagging along for.

  He holds back a grin at my reluctance, nearly tugging me onto the studio floor.

  “Cooper…” I say, eying the crew, all donning different versions of the same shirt we’re wearing. He stops pulling and steps in front of me, reaching to swipe a loose strand of hair from my eyes, but stopping himself and letting his arm fall back to his side.

  “You’re not camera shy, are you?”

  9

  Meet the Sheets

  Truth? I’m not camera shy. My face is on business cards and I’m not opposed to posting the occasional selfie with my cats.

  However,
when I’m faced with a professional commercial and advertising crew, I am incredibly camera shy.

  My feet slide on the floor as I dig my heels into the smooth surface. “Cooper…”

  “Relax.” He squeezes my hand. “We’re just the stand-ins.”

  “And what does that entail?”

  “Mostly messing around in front of the camera while they test the lighting.”

  That doesn’t sound horrible, but I tilt a skeptical eyebrow in his direction anyhow.

  He lets out a light chuckle. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  I step into him, tucking close to his arm as busy crew members briskly walk around us. He leads me past one of the photo shoots, a bare-chested male model stealing my attention for half a second—or perhaps longer by the amused look Cooper gives me when I turn back to him.

  “He’s the actual clothing model,” Cooper explains. “Probably the header of the ad campaign while this one”—He nods up ahead—“is the footnote.”

  A second camera crew is setting up around a giant, fluffy bed. The comforter is bright white, reminiscent of the bedding in the million dollar home I showed to him just yesterday. A rush of excitement overwhelms my stomach as Cooper pulls me right up to the queen-size.

  “What exactly are you advertising?” I ask, tempted to run my fingers over the duvet.

  “Sterling Advertising runs all the campaigns for Cozy King.” He drops my hand and flops onto the bed. “Stand-in days are good ones.”

  My lips turn up, amused at the hand he’s using to smooth and prepare the spot next to him for me. He waggles a playful brow, and biting back a laugh, I turn and fall backward into the soft comfort of a memory foam mattress and must-be Egyptian cotton material.

  “I could live right here,” I say with a sigh, staring up at the rafters in the incomplete ceiling.

  “You can.” The sheets shift as he tucks his hands under his head. “Well, until the director of photography shows up.”

  I run my hands over the comforter, electricity shocking up my knuckles when they accidentally bump into his hip. I haven’t bought myself a birthday present yet; maybe I’ll give the Cozy King a few of my hard-earned dollar bills… if they have any sheets in a brighter color.