Chapter 3
3
brADY
A s soon as she comes in, I spot the petite woman who brought in the Lamborghini. I was obviously so caught up in my own head that I didn't notice how hot she is. Now in her workout clothes, her curves are even more accentuated. She's small, but her ass and tits are generously proportioned. Others might call her curvy, but I call that body incredibly sexy.
I watch her. On the stepper. At the machines with that trainer. And when she gets on the treadmill, I seize my opportunity. Clearly I've forgotten what I thought about her in the face of her beauty.
She doesn't see me approaching. I grin to myself because I like the element of surprise. When I'm already next to her, her eyes find me and she misses her next step. I quickly reach for her, lifting her off the treadmill so she doesn't fall on her face. She feels good in my hands. I like that I can look down at her - and quietly admire her generous cleavage in the process. To everyone else, it looks like I'm looking into her eyes. It couldn't be more perfect.
"Um, thanks," she breathes, a little breathless. It's a tone that shoots straight to my cock.
Take it easy , I tell myself. She doesn't need to see me with a hard-on again. Especially since my joggers are tighter than the coveralls.
"Everything okay?" I ask, while I imagine... No, I'm not imagining anything. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She nods. We stand silently facing each other for a while before she clears her throat. "You can let go of me now."
I quickly remove my fingers from her upper arms. Oops. I hadn't even realized I was still holding her.
"I've never seen you here before," I say when the silence becomes unbearable. I admit, not the most brilliant opening line, but at least it's better than staring at her tits like a pervert.
"I've been very busy."
Her tongue darts out, licking over her pretty perfect lips. Fuck. Don't think about it.
Before I can say anything, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, see it's Mindy, and put it away again.
"Want to go get a drink?"
For a moment I'm tempted to turn around to see who said that, but then I realize I was the idiot. I'd like to take it back.
But she smiles. "A protein shake?" she jokes.
I shrug. "Or a beer?"
"At the entrance in half an hour?"
I grin. "Sounds good. See you soon."
Her smile is really sweet. Not at all like she thinks she's better than everyone else. Maybe I just caught her on the wrong foot.
She heads toward the changing rooms and I stare at her perfect ass, which looks so juicy in those leggings that I want to bite into it.
Wow, dude, stop being so embarrassing! That's not cool.
Good thing nobody here can read my thoughts.
But as I look around, I realize that every guy here knows what I'm thinking. Because they're having exactly the same thought as this little treat walks past them.
MALLORY
Did Mr. Sexy seriously just ask me out for a beer? I wish I had a witness to confirm this actually happened, because I fear my memory is deceiving me. This can't be real.
For one thing, it's already a very strange coincidence that he's at this gym, even though there must be fifty around. For another, a guy like that doesn't ask out a girl like me.
He looks good, is very well-built—at least you can tell that much. He's one of those fitness freaks who hits the gym every day. It's obvious. And when you look at me, you can tell I'm not like that.
I look good too—when I have three pounds of makeup on my face. I'm also well-built, if you like the generous type. And I'm a foodie. I may not be able to cook, but I can certainly eat. On all my free evenings—which aren't exactly plentiful—I drive to San Francisco to enjoy all the culinary diversity a big city has to offer. And I will never feel guilty about it.
I'm great, overall. The man who eventually gets me can consider himself lucky already. So there's that.
But of course I also know that men who look like him typically want women with legs up to the sky, whose waist circumference is significantly smaller than mine, and who don't carry around dimples and stretch marks.
There's also another reason why such a guy would never find a girl like me attractive. And that's my brain. There are simply too many men who can't handle intelligence. I once read a sobering study. It found that men tend to orient themselves toward less intelligent partners, while women orient themselves toward more intelligent ones. The big losers are stupid men and intelligent women. I'm certainly not Sharon Stone, who supposedly has an IQ of 154, nor am I Judith Polgár, the strongest female chess player in the world, and I'm definitely far from Marilyn vos Savant, who is considered the smartest woman. But I have brains.
And the man I could fall in love with must have them too.
That's just how it is.
So, to be honest, it doesn't really matter if he wants me. The decisive question will be whether I want him.
Despite all these considerations, despite all the facts I'm listing here, my heart is beating faster. I'm also a bit out of practice when it comes to dating. Or meeting men. Or talking to men other than Juan, Roberto, and Diego.
I shower in record time, then check my makeup, touch up my blush and lipstick, and comb through my hair. One last check. It'll have to do.
I arrive at the entrance almost on time. Mr. Sexy—I can't remember if I know his real name—has his phone to his ear. He really does look good.
I don't want to eavesdrop, which is why I stay at a distance, but I can still hear his voice from here.
"We've been through this already." He rubs his face. "You know what, Mindy? Either you come or you don't, but I'm really not in the mood for this back and forth." He ends the call, his gaze falling on me. He smiles. "Ready?"
"Almost on time."
"Indeed."
"That could be my life motto. I'm always almost on time, so I'm only running a few minutes behind everything. It could be worse, it could be hours."
I force myself to close my mouth before more nonsense comes out.
"Well, that would only be bad if it stressed you out. If you were at peace with your unpunctuality, there wouldn't be a problem."
"Hmm. You think? But society doesn't work that way."
He shrugs. "Why should you care about others?"
And actually he's right, which is why I can't think of a response.
"I find your logic annoying."
He laughs. "Sorry, I'll try to be as illogical as possible."
"Please do." But I'm grinning too.
"Do you want to leave your car here and ride with me? Or should we drive separately?"
"Would you bring me back here afterward?"
"Of course. Or drive you home or put you in a taxi, whatever you prefer."
"Okay, then I'll ride with you."
He points to an old Camaro that looks very well-maintained. No wonder, coming from a mechanic.
"Hey, this might be a bit weird."
"Shoot."
"What's your name, actually?" I ask, embarrassed.
He laughs, then tilts his head slightly. "Oops, we haven't officially introduced ourselves, have we? I'm Brady. And you're Mallory?"
"Exactly, Mallory. How do you know that?"
"It was in the papers at the shop."
"Ah, okay. I was starting to think you had some magical abilities."
"Unfortunately, never received a letter from Hogwarts."
"Hmm, too bad."
"And you?"
"I received one, but then decided to go to Ilvermorny instead."
Grinning, he holds the door open for me. "Wow, impressive. I've never met a real witch before."
Laughing, I get into the car and buckle up while he walks around to the driver's side.
Once he's seated, he says: "Though I have to revise that statement. Some women must definitely be witches."
"Oh, shame on you for such a sexist comment!"
He holds up his hands. "If you think witches are a good thing, then it's not sexist."
"Do you think that?" I narrow my eyes skeptically, trying to give him a mean look.
He winks at me. "I'm already a huge fan."
I open my mouth to respond when what he meant really hits me. Blushing, I close it again and look out the window. Good thing I'm wearing so much makeup that he can't tell my skin is changing color.
Well played, Mr. Sexy. Very well played.
"Was your boss happy with everything?" he asks when it becomes obvious that I'm not going to say anything.
"To be honest, I don't really know. He was otherwise occupied."
"Hmm. Why is he such an important customer?"
"I don't think it's really about him specifically, but everyone from the company brings their cars to you. At least once a week, some JRD employee is on site. I guess that's pretty good for you guys."
"Sure, that makes sense. I'll definitely remember that."
I smile. "So Mr. Lopez is your esteemed customer from now on?"
"No, but you are. VIP treatment for Mallory Callahan."
"If that's the case..." I laugh.
"Tell me." He looks at me as we stop at a red light.
I wave it off. "Oh, it was just a joke."
"Spit it out."
"Okay, the brakes squeak."
"Bring it in tomorrow and I'll take a look."
"Really?"
"Of course."
"And what if you don't like me after a beer?"
"Can't happen. And if it does, I'll just drink another one."
He grins and I feel it doing things to me. Good things. Things that have been dormant for far too long.
"You're a goofball."
"Sometimes."
He parks near a bar, gets out, comes around the car, but I've already stepped out myself.
"Just when I try to be a gentleman and the lady gets out by herself."
"Lady," I snort in response.
"No?"
"I'm afraid I'm pretty far from being a lady."
He shrugs. "So somewhere between a lady and a witch?"
"Exactly."
"Where exactly?"
"You'll have to figure that out yourself. It's in the eye of the beholder."
"I thought that was beauty?"
"Works for everything."
He holds the door to the bar open for me, places a hand on my lower back as I walk past him, and probably doesn't even realize what a thunderstorm he's triggering inside me.
Brady points in one direction. "There's something free over there."
He leans in close to my ear so I can hear him over the noise, which causes his breath to tickle my skin and my knees decide now would be a good time to go weak.
It's Brady's hand on my back that helps me walk to an empty table. I slide onto the bench. Instead of sitting across from me, Brady sits next to me.
"Is this okay with you? It's so loud in here that I'd feel like I'd be shouting at you the whole time if I sat on the other side, and that's not how a first date should be."
"A date? This isn't a date."
He looks at me with amusement. "No? What is it then?"
"Well, it's... having a beer... among friends. Something like that."
"I see. So a kind of meeting?"
"Yes, exactly."
"Between a man and a woman?"
I nod. "You're a man. I'm a woman."
"Who find each other attractive?"
"Hmm, yes, I guess so."
"And the man invited the woman?"
"That's right."
"And how is this different from a date?"
I shrug. "Your logic is really starting to annoy me."
He laughs. "Don't kid yourself, little lady. This is a date."
I turn my face away because I don't want him to see the huge smile spreading across it. Damn.
"And it's already one of the best I've ever had."
"You really can't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"It's dangerous."
"Dangerous?"
"For my heart."
And this time I really do smack myself on the forehead. How can someone be so incredibly stupid and just blurt out everything that comes to mind? Am I trying to embarrass myself the entire time?
Brady takes my hand. "I'll take care of your heart and you take care of mine."
His thumb strokes over the back of my hand.
The waitress comes and fortunately interrupts this moment. "What can I get you?"
"I'll have a glass of the house white wine," I answer. Beer tastes awful.
"What do you have on tap?" Brady asks.
"An IPA."
"Then I'll take that. Thanks."
We're quiet for a second. The previous moment was pretty intense, and somehow I don't know how to pick up from there.
"Are you from around here?" he asks.
I shake my head. "No, from near Sacramento. And you?"
"From San Francisco. Did you study here?"
"Yes, I was at Stanford. Since then I've worked at various companies. I've been with JRD for three years and I've been the executive assistant for five months."
"Impressive."
"Well, basically it's just a fancy title for fetching coffee." I grin.
"But it's probably the best coffee in the world."
"Naturally."
The waitress brings our drinks and we toast each other.
"Tell me your story," I prompt him.
"Phew. Basically I've done quite a lot. After high school, I worked in a garage where I learned everything. Eventually I was working on a guy's car who turned out to be a model scout. He put this idea in my head that I could be the next Marcus Schenkenberg. I did get a few jobs, but the big breakthrough wasn't among them, and it wann’t really that much fun anyway."
"Why not?"
"Because it's kind of silly. At least it felt that way to me. I'm not the type who wants to be celebrated for his looks. I'm probably doing all models an injustice, but to me it felt like I wasn't really doing anything. And I couldn't live with that."
"Any campaigns I might know?"
"Probably not. I quit before it could get big. Though of course there's no guarantee it would have gotten big."
"Well, my humble opinion is that you look pretty good. If you had told me you worked for Calvin Klein, I wouldn't have doubted it."
"You think I look good?"
I roll my eyes. "Figures that's all you heard."
He grins. "You have to take compliments where you can get them."
"As if women aren't constantly slipping you their numbers."
He shakes his head. "Rather rarely."
"What do they do then? Take their clothes off immediately?"
"Not that either."
"But seriously, you look good, obviously have brains," unfortunately, because now I can't console myself with the fact that I wouldn't have wanted such a dimwit anyway if I get rejected, "you're charming. Women must be lining up. You can't tell me otherwise. So why would you meet up with a woman like me?"
"A woman like you?" he asks, confused.
"I'm not the model type," I help him out.
A small smile steals across his face, growing sweeter by the second. "Says who?"
"Well, me."
"If you really believe that, you're out of your mind."
"Excuse me?" I ask, because once again I don't have a suitable response.
"You heard me." He grins at me. "You're gorgeous, not to mention forbidden hot."
"Yeah, right."
Instead of answering, his lips are suddenly on mine. At first I'm surprised, and then I melt against him.
brADY
Who actually tells really hot women that they're not? How can this piece of heaven think that any woman in this bar looks hotter than she does? It's incomprehensible to me.
And because I want to drive this idea out of her head, I lean forward and kiss her sweetly. She flinches before a contented hum escapes her lips.
I tenderly cup her face, stroke her cheeks with my thumbs, smile at her, hoping she sees in my eyes how hot she is. If she doesn't get it, I could just take her hand and place it on my crotch so she feels that my cock is already semi-hard again. Just because of her.
But I'm not sure if she would slap me for that. Rightly so.
And then this kiss. This kiss I wouldn't have expected. The feeling of her delicate lips against mine. The little gasp when she opens her mouth. The softness of her tongue as it touches mine.
I hold back. Try, to start the kiss as slowly as possible, but I fail. I want more. So much more. Her scent, her feel, her taste... all of it mixes into an intoxicating cocktail that can only be addictive.
Maybe I should check if my balls are still there with all this sappy stuff...
It doesn't change anything.
One kiss. One kiss is enough to know that this will be the gold standard for all kisses to follow.
Fuck.
I'm really screwed.