Fighting Attraction
Page 20
My stomach knots at the thought of all the women he’s dressed and undressed in this room, the ponytails he’s fixed, the dirty things he’s said. But I have no right to feel jealous. He made me no promises. Told me no lies. I had my one night, my one chance.
I just never expected to want another, and especially not with him.
* * *
After a sleepless night of trying to keep my promise, I give in to my burning need for release and hit the shower with my vibrator in hand. After I’ve relieved enough tension to feel almost human again, I get dressed, feed my cat, Clarice, and drive to the office, arriving only a minute before Ray walks in the door.
“What happened to you?” he demands the moment he sees me.
Oh God. Do I look like I spent a night in sleepless sexual frustration and a morning having multiple orgasms in the shower?
“Nothing.” I turn on the coffeepot and give myself a mental check—skirt, shoes, top, bra—nothing outwardly amiss. “Why?”
Ray shrugs. “You’ve never been early before, especially on a Thursday when you’re revving up for the weekend.” He tosses his jacket on the coatrack and stretches out on the couch. People might think he’s lazy, but Ray gets up at four a.m. every morning, goes for a run, lifts weights, showers, and makes breakfast, all before normal people, including his wife, Sia, roll out of bed.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get an early start on the day. And I’m not a car, Ray. I don’t rev.”
“You have a date?”
“No, I did not have a date. Not that it’s any of your business.” Usually I just let Ray’s nosy questions wash over me, but today, his interest grates.
“You need to go on a date.” He folds his arms behind his head. “It’s been a long time. You’re letting that fucking Vetch Retch ruin your life.”
Still unsettled over my encounter last night, I spin around and glare. “There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t know where to begin. First, you are married with a kid, so you’re not in a position to give me dating advice. Second, you’re a guy. If I need dating advice, I’ll ask a woman. Third, and FYI, I have been on dates since Vetch; I just haven’t shared them with you. Fourth, no, I am not letting him ruin my life. I’ve just become more cautious about who I go out with. And finally, long time is a relative term.”
Ray studies me, his dark eyes boring into my soul. “Who?”
“Who what?”
“Who did you go out with and not tell me about?”
Mercifully, the coffeepot beeps, and I pour two cups and then add two creams and two sugars to each of them. “If I didn’t tell you, I might have a reason.”
Ray bolts up off the couch. “Why? Did someone hurt you? Someone hurts you, and I’ll rip off his balls and stuff them down his throat.”
“That’s sweet in an unnecessarily overprotective coworker kind of way.” I hand him his coffee and wrap my hands around my own cup, letting out a sigh as the warmth seeps into my perpetually cold hands. “Are you this bad with Sia? I mean, we’re just friends, and you almost wound up in jail for me.”
“It’s worse.” Ray tenses when the front door closes, and frowns at the wall separating the outer hallway from the reception area as if he can’t tell from the click of heels on the wooden floor who has just come in. “She has to threaten me before we go anywhere ’cause I want to beat up every fucking guy who looks at her. If I didn’t have Redemption to blow off some steam, I’d probably be divorced already.”
“Who’s getting divorced?” Amanda joins us in the reception area, looking stunning in a fitted, dark gray suit and pearl silk blouse.
“No one,” I say. “Ray’s having protectiveness issues with the women in his life.”
“We gotta get Penny hitched.” He sips his coffee and resumes his position, stretched full-out on the couch. “I can’t handle looking after two women, especially since Sam was born. I feel like I gotta be on alert all the time.”
Amanda’s lips quirk in a smile as she jumps on the “get Penny hitched” bandwagon. “Penny’s looking for a bit of wild, a badass type like Vetch Retch but without the abusive tendencies. You know anyone?”
“What?” I stare at Amanda, aghast. “I don’t need—”
“Yeah, I know lots of guys like that.” Ray whips out his phone and scrolls through his address book, muttering to himself. “Stan? No. He’s in a Thai jail. Rick? No, he’s hiding in Panama. Steve? Missing a couple of screws. Arn? Still in rehab. Mike? No. He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Johnny Cash.”
“Hello.” I wave my free hand in Ray’s face. “I’m happy with things the way they are, thank you very much. I don’t need a man.”
“You need a man, and you need him bad,” Ray says. “I’m a man. I know these things.”
“How about you take those psychic skills into the field and leave the guy stuff to me.” Amanda pulls a file from her briefcase. “I’ve got a dude here who says he can’t walk after my client broadsided his car, but his neighbors have seen him doing yard work.”
Ray takes the file and flips through it. Although we run an almost-paperless office, he insists on hard-copy briefing documents that he shreds as soon as he dictates his report. I like to tease him about kicking it old school, but I suspect his antipathy toward electronic communications has something to do with the rumors about his involvement with the CIA.
“How ’bout something challenging?” he says with a groan. “Like hunting down an escaped con, or retrieving missile launch codes from a billionaire black-market arms dealer, or spying on the president?”
“How about a video of Mr. Paul Williams cleaning his gutters before three o’clock this afternoon?” Amanda gestures to the door.
I just never expected to want another, and especially not with him.
* * *
After a sleepless night of trying to keep my promise, I give in to my burning need for release and hit the shower with my vibrator in hand. After I’ve relieved enough tension to feel almost human again, I get dressed, feed my cat, Clarice, and drive to the office, arriving only a minute before Ray walks in the door.
“What happened to you?” he demands the moment he sees me.
Oh God. Do I look like I spent a night in sleepless sexual frustration and a morning having multiple orgasms in the shower?
“Nothing.” I turn on the coffeepot and give myself a mental check—skirt, shoes, top, bra—nothing outwardly amiss. “Why?”
Ray shrugs. “You’ve never been early before, especially on a Thursday when you’re revving up for the weekend.” He tosses his jacket on the coatrack and stretches out on the couch. People might think he’s lazy, but Ray gets up at four a.m. every morning, goes for a run, lifts weights, showers, and makes breakfast, all before normal people, including his wife, Sia, roll out of bed.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get an early start on the day. And I’m not a car, Ray. I don’t rev.”
“You have a date?”
“No, I did not have a date. Not that it’s any of your business.” Usually I just let Ray’s nosy questions wash over me, but today, his interest grates.
“You need to go on a date.” He folds his arms behind his head. “It’s been a long time. You’re letting that fucking Vetch Retch ruin your life.”
Still unsettled over my encounter last night, I spin around and glare. “There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t know where to begin. First, you are married with a kid, so you’re not in a position to give me dating advice. Second, you’re a guy. If I need dating advice, I’ll ask a woman. Third, and FYI, I have been on dates since Vetch; I just haven’t shared them with you. Fourth, no, I am not letting him ruin my life. I’ve just become more cautious about who I go out with. And finally, long time is a relative term.”
Ray studies me, his dark eyes boring into my soul. “Who?”
“Who what?”
“Who did you go out with and not tell me about?”
Mercifully, the coffeepot beeps, and I pour two cups and then add two creams and two sugars to each of them. “If I didn’t tell you, I might have a reason.”
Ray bolts up off the couch. “Why? Did someone hurt you? Someone hurts you, and I’ll rip off his balls and stuff them down his throat.”
“That’s sweet in an unnecessarily overprotective coworker kind of way.” I hand him his coffee and wrap my hands around my own cup, letting out a sigh as the warmth seeps into my perpetually cold hands. “Are you this bad with Sia? I mean, we’re just friends, and you almost wound up in jail for me.”
“It’s worse.” Ray tenses when the front door closes, and frowns at the wall separating the outer hallway from the reception area as if he can’t tell from the click of heels on the wooden floor who has just come in. “She has to threaten me before we go anywhere ’cause I want to beat up every fucking guy who looks at her. If I didn’t have Redemption to blow off some steam, I’d probably be divorced already.”
“Who’s getting divorced?” Amanda joins us in the reception area, looking stunning in a fitted, dark gray suit and pearl silk blouse.
“No one,” I say. “Ray’s having protectiveness issues with the women in his life.”
“We gotta get Penny hitched.” He sips his coffee and resumes his position, stretched full-out on the couch. “I can’t handle looking after two women, especially since Sam was born. I feel like I gotta be on alert all the time.”
Amanda’s lips quirk in a smile as she jumps on the “get Penny hitched” bandwagon. “Penny’s looking for a bit of wild, a badass type like Vetch Retch but without the abusive tendencies. You know anyone?”
“What?” I stare at Amanda, aghast. “I don’t need—”
“Yeah, I know lots of guys like that.” Ray whips out his phone and scrolls through his address book, muttering to himself. “Stan? No. He’s in a Thai jail. Rick? No, he’s hiding in Panama. Steve? Missing a couple of screws. Arn? Still in rehab. Mike? No. He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Johnny Cash.”
“Hello.” I wave my free hand in Ray’s face. “I’m happy with things the way they are, thank you very much. I don’t need a man.”
“You need a man, and you need him bad,” Ray says. “I’m a man. I know these things.”
“How about you take those psychic skills into the field and leave the guy stuff to me.” Amanda pulls a file from her briefcase. “I’ve got a dude here who says he can’t walk after my client broadsided his car, but his neighbors have seen him doing yard work.”
Ray takes the file and flips through it. Although we run an almost-paperless office, he insists on hard-copy briefing documents that he shreds as soon as he dictates his report. I like to tease him about kicking it old school, but I suspect his antipathy toward electronic communications has something to do with the rumors about his involvement with the CIA.
“How ’bout something challenging?” he says with a groan. “Like hunting down an escaped con, or retrieving missile launch codes from a billionaire black-market arms dealer, or spying on the president?”
“How about a video of Mr. Paul Williams cleaning his gutters before three o’clock this afternoon?” Amanda gestures to the door.
