Not So Nice Guy
Page 20
“Seems like a game I’d rather not play.”
In a flash, he releases me and steps back. Cold air-conditioning replaces his warmth. It’s like he’s just plunged me in that dunking booth.
“Fine! Okay!” I relent quickly, hoping he’ll immediately step close to me again, but he doesn’t. He leans back against my desk and crosses his feet at the ankles. The sight throws me into a vivid memory of an old fantasy of mine: the two of us having sex against that desk. I have to look away so fantasy and reality don’t start to merge.
“We’ll start small. Are you attracted to me?”
“In a general sense?” I wave my hand in circles. “Are bees attracted to flowers? Yes.”
My pithy response falls flat. I drag my gaze back to him and find he’s crossed his arms. He looks angry, like he wants to punish me, preferably with a ruler. Oh, wait, no—that’s the fantasy talking.
“If you’re not going to answer honestly, let’s not play.”
“Yes…I’m attracted to you.” I say it like I’m admitting to picking my nose.
It’s a terrible habit I really need to work on—being attracted to him, I mean.
He nods, seemingly pleased with the answer. “Even though I’m nothing like the guys you usually date?”
I release a puff of air that sounds like PAH. “Of course you’re nothing like the guys I date.”
“What does that mean?”
“Is this part of the game?”
The very tip of his mouth curves up. “Yes.”
Meaning if I don’t answer, we’ll have to kiss. Am I prepared for that? His lips on mine?
I shiver at the thought and look down at my newly painted nails so I don’t have to watch his reaction while I offer him the truth. “Because you’re out of my league, Fletcher, literally and figuratively. You’ve never dated a woman under six feet. They’ve all been sturdy and tall. Growth-hormone milk drinkers, if you will.”
“Milk drinkers?”
“My mother used to tell me if I didn’t drink my milk, I wouldn’t grow big and strong. I preferred orange juice, and well, now who’s laughing?”
He finds that little insight very amusing indeed. “Adorable.”
I want to wrap my hands around his neck and prove to him just how un-adorable I can be when provoked. Scrappy is an adjective that comes to mind when people try to describe me. I’m quick in a fight. I can sneak under arms and karate chop you in the kidneys—at least I can in my head.
Ian is looking at me like he doesn’t realize my full potential. I sneer.
“You know what? Is this game two-sided? By my estimation, you owe me like fifty honest answers.”
“Or…the alternative, if I don’t want to answer.”
My eyes go wide.
Fifty kisses?! My lips would swell, bruise, fall right off.
His blue eyes promise me if I challenge him, I won’t like the results.
I sigh, kick off my heels, and scooch my butt up onto the small desk behind me. “Fine. Keep asking me questions then.”
“When did you first realize you were attracted to me?”
Ha.
“Day one. Next.”
His brows rise in shock.
“Have you ever been close to telling me the truth?”
“Of course.”
“When?”
I shrug. “Maybe three months in, when you’d just broken it off with that dermatologist…but then a guy I’d sort of liked for a while came back into the picture so I wanted to give it a shot with him.”
“Mason,” he says confidently. A dark glint shadows his gaze. If we were in a cheesy movie, he’d have said his name while pounding his fist into his palm.
“Yeah, him. Anyway, then you hooked up with that lawyer, the woman who insisted on calling me Samantha and then made it worse by over-pronouncing each syllable. Sah-mahn-thah. It’s like she had phlegm in her throat or something.”
“Karissa. Yeah, she sucked.”
“I know.”
His eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell me after I broke things off with her? That was the first time we were single at the same time.”
The fact that he knows that is pretty illuminating. If this game were going both ways, I’d interrupt and ask him if he was attracted to me back then too. My pitiful heart can barely handle the possibility that he was—or rather, is.
“Sam?”
I stare at a patch of drywall beside his head. “I don’t know. We’d settled into a friend routine. It worked and I didn’t want to rock the boat.”
“And now?”
“Now, I still don’t.”
It’s why I’m playing this stupid game and answering his questions instead of letting him kiss me. Of course I want that kiss. Are you kidding me?! Has he looked in a mirror? He’s so hot tonight I bet he’d be half tempted to lean forward and lay one on his own reflection, fog up the glass.
“Explain, Sam.”
I twist my fingers together and pick at my nail polish. I usually never wear nail polish because picking it off is too fun, like now. What a waste of $30. “It’s very simple, really: we have a bird in the hand. You and I make an excellent duo. You’re my best friend. Really, actually, now that I think about it, you’re my only friend. Everyone we used to hang out with has either moved away or had kids, but not us. We’ve never grown up or settled down. We still have time for West Wing Wednesdays and trivia nights and that one month where I wanted to take up rollerblading and I made you walk beside me and hold my hand.”
He suppresses a laugh at the memory.
“Yeah, people thought I was your little sister. Women tried to hit on you because they thought you were a doting big brother, teaching me how to rollerblade like that. Anyway, my point is: I think we’ve established that this is a super great scenario, and if we decide to start dating, there’s a 99% chance it won’t work out, and then what? I lose a boyfriend and a best friend in one fell swoop. No bird in the hand, and no birds in the bush. No. I’m not doing it.”
“You sound like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“I have. I’ve even done research. I can recall every sitcom that touches on this topic from the late 1990s until now.”
“What about Chandler and Monica?”
“They were just lucky.”
“Jim and Pam?”
“Well…it took ’em a while.”
“Leslie and Ben?”
“It was rocky there for a bit.”
He laughs and pushes off the desk to stand. “I get it now.”
He stalks forward like a panther and then he’s right there, looming over me. He tips down so his hands rest on the desk on either side of my hips. We’re eye level, blue gaze to blue gaze. My knees brush against the front of his suit pants. Holy shit. He’s big. My eyes grow wide. He lets out a deep breath then glances down. His growl is barely contained to the back of his throat. The bottom of my dress has ridden up to the top of my thighs, and I wish I’d thought to button his coat around me. I need that extra layer if I intend to leave this classroom as put together as when I entered.
I try to slide off the desk, but he doesn’t let me. He steps forward and my knees are forced apart.
Now we’re wedged together and my thighs are gripping his hips like a pole I’m about to slide down. Firewoman Sam, at your service.
“Is this still part of the game?” I ask, sounding like someone has their hands wrapped around my throat. I’m dying.
“No.” One of his hand traces along my jaw. “No more games.”
His touch is feather light and I’m embarrassed to find myself leaning into it. I’m a cat, angling for pets.
“The fact is,” he says solemnly, “I’m ready to try this out, but you don’t seem to be.”
He’s looking at my lips, studying them like he’s going to have to recreate them from memory later.
“So?”
Does that mean he’ll take what he wants anyway? Because truthfully, I love that idea—all pleasure and no consequences. He can run his hand up under my dress and touch me like he wanted to touch me on the phone the other night while I pretend like I kept my wits about me. I’ll have the moral high road while he explores each of my immoral low roads. Win-win.
In a flash, he releases me and steps back. Cold air-conditioning replaces his warmth. It’s like he’s just plunged me in that dunking booth.
“Fine! Okay!” I relent quickly, hoping he’ll immediately step close to me again, but he doesn’t. He leans back against my desk and crosses his feet at the ankles. The sight throws me into a vivid memory of an old fantasy of mine: the two of us having sex against that desk. I have to look away so fantasy and reality don’t start to merge.
“We’ll start small. Are you attracted to me?”
“In a general sense?” I wave my hand in circles. “Are bees attracted to flowers? Yes.”
My pithy response falls flat. I drag my gaze back to him and find he’s crossed his arms. He looks angry, like he wants to punish me, preferably with a ruler. Oh, wait, no—that’s the fantasy talking.
“If you’re not going to answer honestly, let’s not play.”
“Yes…I’m attracted to you.” I say it like I’m admitting to picking my nose.
It’s a terrible habit I really need to work on—being attracted to him, I mean.
He nods, seemingly pleased with the answer. “Even though I’m nothing like the guys you usually date?”
I release a puff of air that sounds like PAH. “Of course you’re nothing like the guys I date.”
“What does that mean?”
“Is this part of the game?”
The very tip of his mouth curves up. “Yes.”
Meaning if I don’t answer, we’ll have to kiss. Am I prepared for that? His lips on mine?
I shiver at the thought and look down at my newly painted nails so I don’t have to watch his reaction while I offer him the truth. “Because you’re out of my league, Fletcher, literally and figuratively. You’ve never dated a woman under six feet. They’ve all been sturdy and tall. Growth-hormone milk drinkers, if you will.”
“Milk drinkers?”
“My mother used to tell me if I didn’t drink my milk, I wouldn’t grow big and strong. I preferred orange juice, and well, now who’s laughing?”
He finds that little insight very amusing indeed. “Adorable.”
I want to wrap my hands around his neck and prove to him just how un-adorable I can be when provoked. Scrappy is an adjective that comes to mind when people try to describe me. I’m quick in a fight. I can sneak under arms and karate chop you in the kidneys—at least I can in my head.
Ian is looking at me like he doesn’t realize my full potential. I sneer.
“You know what? Is this game two-sided? By my estimation, you owe me like fifty honest answers.”
“Or…the alternative, if I don’t want to answer.”
My eyes go wide.
Fifty kisses?! My lips would swell, bruise, fall right off.
His blue eyes promise me if I challenge him, I won’t like the results.
I sigh, kick off my heels, and scooch my butt up onto the small desk behind me. “Fine. Keep asking me questions then.”
“When did you first realize you were attracted to me?”
Ha.
“Day one. Next.”
His brows rise in shock.
“Have you ever been close to telling me the truth?”
“Of course.”
“When?”
I shrug. “Maybe three months in, when you’d just broken it off with that dermatologist…but then a guy I’d sort of liked for a while came back into the picture so I wanted to give it a shot with him.”
“Mason,” he says confidently. A dark glint shadows his gaze. If we were in a cheesy movie, he’d have said his name while pounding his fist into his palm.
“Yeah, him. Anyway, then you hooked up with that lawyer, the woman who insisted on calling me Samantha and then made it worse by over-pronouncing each syllable. Sah-mahn-thah. It’s like she had phlegm in her throat or something.”
“Karissa. Yeah, she sucked.”
“I know.”
His eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell me after I broke things off with her? That was the first time we were single at the same time.”
The fact that he knows that is pretty illuminating. If this game were going both ways, I’d interrupt and ask him if he was attracted to me back then too. My pitiful heart can barely handle the possibility that he was—or rather, is.
“Sam?”
I stare at a patch of drywall beside his head. “I don’t know. We’d settled into a friend routine. It worked and I didn’t want to rock the boat.”
“And now?”
“Now, I still don’t.”
It’s why I’m playing this stupid game and answering his questions instead of letting him kiss me. Of course I want that kiss. Are you kidding me?! Has he looked in a mirror? He’s so hot tonight I bet he’d be half tempted to lean forward and lay one on his own reflection, fog up the glass.
“Explain, Sam.”
I twist my fingers together and pick at my nail polish. I usually never wear nail polish because picking it off is too fun, like now. What a waste of $30. “It’s very simple, really: we have a bird in the hand. You and I make an excellent duo. You’re my best friend. Really, actually, now that I think about it, you’re my only friend. Everyone we used to hang out with has either moved away or had kids, but not us. We’ve never grown up or settled down. We still have time for West Wing Wednesdays and trivia nights and that one month where I wanted to take up rollerblading and I made you walk beside me and hold my hand.”
He suppresses a laugh at the memory.
“Yeah, people thought I was your little sister. Women tried to hit on you because they thought you were a doting big brother, teaching me how to rollerblade like that. Anyway, my point is: I think we’ve established that this is a super great scenario, and if we decide to start dating, there’s a 99% chance it won’t work out, and then what? I lose a boyfriend and a best friend in one fell swoop. No bird in the hand, and no birds in the bush. No. I’m not doing it.”
“You sound like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“I have. I’ve even done research. I can recall every sitcom that touches on this topic from the late 1990s until now.”
“What about Chandler and Monica?”
“They were just lucky.”
“Jim and Pam?”
“Well…it took ’em a while.”
“Leslie and Ben?”
“It was rocky there for a bit.”
He laughs and pushes off the desk to stand. “I get it now.”
He stalks forward like a panther and then he’s right there, looming over me. He tips down so his hands rest on the desk on either side of my hips. We’re eye level, blue gaze to blue gaze. My knees brush against the front of his suit pants. Holy shit. He’s big. My eyes grow wide. He lets out a deep breath then glances down. His growl is barely contained to the back of his throat. The bottom of my dress has ridden up to the top of my thighs, and I wish I’d thought to button his coat around me. I need that extra layer if I intend to leave this classroom as put together as when I entered.
I try to slide off the desk, but he doesn’t let me. He steps forward and my knees are forced apart.
Now we’re wedged together and my thighs are gripping his hips like a pole I’m about to slide down. Firewoman Sam, at your service.
“Is this still part of the game?” I ask, sounding like someone has their hands wrapped around my throat. I’m dying.
“No.” One of his hand traces along my jaw. “No more games.”
His touch is feather light and I’m embarrassed to find myself leaning into it. I’m a cat, angling for pets.
“The fact is,” he says solemnly, “I’m ready to try this out, but you don’t seem to be.”
He’s looking at my lips, studying them like he’s going to have to recreate them from memory later.
“So?”
Does that mean he’ll take what he wants anyway? Because truthfully, I love that idea—all pleasure and no consequences. He can run his hand up under my dress and touch me like he wanted to touch me on the phone the other night while I pretend like I kept my wits about me. I’ll have the moral high road while he explores each of my immoral low roads. Win-win.
