Chapter 6
“This is your car?” Morgan asks as I open the passenger door for her. “Are you, like a trust fund baby or something?”
She slides in as I shake my head, holding in a laugh when her lips quirk to the side. “Were you hoping I’d say yes to that question?”
“No,” she quips, fidgeting with her fancy nails.
I don’t usually like nails like that, but damn, they look good on her, bright colors and all, including the shit glued onto them. I forgot what shape Jina called that. Pecan? Macadamia? Almond? Why do I fucking care?
Oh yeah, because of the girl sitting in my front seat right now.
Morgan begins to speak again. “But—”
“Hold that thought,” I interrupt, closing her door. Running around to the other side, I get in and start the car. “You were saying?”
She side-eyes me. “Never mind, you might consider it racist again.”
“Well fuck, now I need to hear it.”
“Absolutely not.” She’s distracted, or at least pretending to be, looking out the window. And she keeps fidgeting with her nails like she’s nervous. Hell yeah, I make her nervous, and the thought of that makes me hard as fuck.
My hands flex on the steering wheel as my horndog mind tries to remind my dick about what the three of us decided last night, post-shower.
First and foremost, Morgan’s off-fucking-limits during our sessions. Sure, I still barely know her, but I obviously care for her. She’s out here making an effort for herself, and I’ll be damned if Jiho Jr. and I fuck it up for her.
Second, and equally foremost, in the most respectful sense, my grandfather can take his ultra-traditional bullshit and shove it up his wrinkly ass.
If anything happens between me and Morgan—and I’ll goddamn make sure it does—it’ll only be temporary. I’ve accepted that. But until the point she leaves, I’m all in.
Just three months with this woman… That’s all I get. But I have a feeling they’ll be worth a fucking lifetime.
So you better believe as soon as the timer for our session runs out, she’ll be getting a different kind of workout. Hell, I didn’t just shift my schedule. I cleared it—the first time I’ve ever done that for a woman.
Glancing at my watch—sixty-seven minutes and counting.
She’s still not looking at me, though, and now I’m getting jealous of whatever has her attention. I gave up a lot to be here today, so she better fucking look at me.
My eyes follow her gaze to…her front door. Shit. Is she going to bolt again? She might, considering her seatbelt’s still unfastened.
Not again—not on my watch.
Why Morgan ran isn’t a mystery. My money’s on the quiet insecurity she tries to hide behind those sharp eyes. I saw it last night, when the phone rang and panic settled over her face. She probably thought I was going to hit it and quit it.
But I’m not that kind of man, especially with a woman like her.
My fingers tap on the steering wheel, my mind mulling over my options for half a second, deciding to take my chances. Leaning over, I reach an arm around her to grab the seat belt and pull it across her lap.
Okay, okay, I know what I just said about our sessions and her being off-limits, but just hear me out.
What would you do if you leaned so close to the woman of your dreams, your face just an inch away from hers?
Would you lean the rest of the way, smell her hair—it smells like coconut, by the way—and then trail your lips up her neck? Watch as her skin pebbles from your touch, while she visibly shivers and arches against the seat? Leaving her staring at you with her gorgeous, golden-brown eyes? Squeezing her perfect, juicy thighs together?
You wouldn’t? Really? Your loss, then, dumbass.
Tearing my lips from her neck, drawing the quickly-blurring-into-obsolescence line right there with my tongue, my hands finish clicking her seatbelt into place.
I whisper in her ear, “Safety first, babycakes.”
Just as expected, she turns into a goddamn tomato, jolting her out of it.
She brushes a loose curl behind her ear, clearing her throat. “Just drive. And don’t call me babycakes.”
“Sure thing, babycakes.” Just as her head snaps my way, her mouth open and ready to fire, I throw the Supra in reverse and peel out, then into first gear and onwards. Enjoying every little bounce of her tits along the way as she hangs on for dear life.
“There’s no oh-shit handles in here,” she says, clinging to the door.
I shoot her a roguish grin. “No need—I’m a perfect, law-abiding driver.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“No idea, babycakes. You tell me.”
When the car settles into fifth gear, Morgan’s hold on the door relaxes, but her brows bunch slightly. “I don’t know… You’re just fast.”
“Too fast?” I ask, sensing the underlying implication there. Maybe that’s another reason she bolted.
But she relaxes further, even resting an elbow on the center console. Fuck, her hand’s touching my arm. And she’s not moving it away.
“No. Not too fast,” she says, like she’s only just made up her mind.
Without needing to, I shift into sixth, only to feel the brush of her skin against mine. And God, it does something to me, but I breathe through it. “So, too fast isn’t why you ran last night? After I asked you to stay?” Like I said, I already have a hunch why she left, but I’m desperate for her to open up.
And with that, ladies and gentleman, Morgan shakes her head and moves her hand away from my arm and into her lap.
I’m a dumbass now.
Thankfully, I have another sixty-four minutes and thirty-eight seconds, give or take, to make up for it.
Blazing forward, I ask another question because as much as I want to fuck her, my interest in Morgan goes way beyond the physical. “So, you’re moving to Seoul for a year, huh? Are you excited?”
She shrugs. “Mmm, yes and no. I’m excited to see what it’s like living somewhere other than Texas, but some of the cultural differences might make it difficult.”
“Like the language? The food? There’s a fuck ton of differences.”
“I mean, of course, the language. Korean is so freaking hard, but the company is going to pay for language lessons while I’m there. And definitely not the food. I’m pretty sure Korean food is God’s gift to earth.”
“Glad to know we agree on that.” Korean food really is the fucking best. “Then what exactly is it?”
Morgan shyly looks away, out the stupid window again. “It’s… It’s too embarrassing.”
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching for her hand, and my heart swells when she lets me take it. “You can tell me anything. I promise, whatever it is, I won’t laugh.”
Contemplation settles on her face, and suddenly I’m a fucking kid in a candy store. I want to know everything about this woman—regardless of the timeline.
Finally, Morgan sucks in a sharp breath, hesitantly admitting, “It’s the same reason I joined Jina’s gym. Here, I might be considered average, but in Korea, I’ll be a hippopotamus walking down Gangnam. I already learned the word for fat in Korean, and I swear if I hear it, I’ll walk my hippo-sized ass into the Han River and let the currents carry me away.” She makes a little wave motion with her hand, like she’s already floating downstream.
“Can’t hippos swim?” I ask, biting the inside of my cheek, trying to stifle the laugh I swore wouldn’t happen. Trying and failing.
Morgan yanks her hand from mine and swats my shoulder. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“Oh, come on, that was hilarious, and you know it.” I grab her hand again, and my heart grows even bigger, like I’m the fucking Grinch singing Fah Who Doraze with the Whos around the goddamn Christmas tree. “You just look…cute right now.”
I wanted to use a different word—like sexy-as-hell —but she’s being vulnerable with me. And that—well, that means everything. Especially when she sucks that full bottom lip between her teeth. God, I swear everything on this woman has a curve. And now I feel my dick growing bigger, too, right alongside my heart.
Remember the line, asshole.
She scoffs. “Cute? Did you not just hear what I said?”
My thumb moves on its own, rubbing the back of her hand. “Look, as someone who’s been to Seoul more times than I can count, trust me when I say that no one fucking cares about foreigners. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Sure, old people might stare, but that’s because you look different in general.”
“Yes,” she says, those giant, brown eyes of hers finally moving to our conjoined hands. Yeah, fuck you, window. “And as the old people stare, they’ll probably be thinking, I didn’t know a whale could grow legs.”
“I thought you were a hippopotamus,” I quip, risking my life for a chance to see her smile. And hell yeah, it works.
It’s one of those smiles that girls do, where they suck in their lips to try to hide it. Fuck, can I kiss her yet? Nope, but at least we’re down to fifty-seven minutes.
Finally, we pull into the grocery store parking lot, and I snag a spot up front. I look over at her, and, fuck me, she’s stunning, with the morning sunlight making her skin and hair glow like something out of a goddamn dream.
“I wish you could see yourself the way I do,” I murmur, not even knowing I said the cheesy-ass words until they left my mouth. First my heart’s swelling and now this? Never knew I could be this cringey for the sake of a woman.
But, damn, I hate the way she talks about herself. Is Morgan skinny? No. But is she fat? Absolutely fucking not. I’m a personal trainer. I’ve seen some things, including actual people so morbidly obese they could barely move. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not mocking those people. Obesity is a total disease that’s plaguing our country for many different reasons.
But that’s a Pandora’s box I don’t want to open right now. Why? Because it would take me nearly a week to talk about it, and no one’s got time for that shit.
Not to mention, there’s a damn sexy, thick goddess sitting next to me with that smile she’s been trying to hide, now fully breaking through. Leaving me speechless.
Her eyes finally—fucking thank God—meet mine when she says, “You really do sound like my mother. But unlike her, Jiho Park, you barely know me.”
I lean into the cringe factor that’s apparently a recessive gene making its debut and actually wink at her. “I plan on changing that, Morgan Asterman.”
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and I sure hope it is. I’m not a religious man—I know, how very un-Korean of me—but I find myself sending up a prayer to the Big Man, asking him to let me drown in the honey of her brown eyes.
Shit. I really am cringey.
I nod in the direction of the grocery store. “Shall we?”
As the two of us wind through the aisles, I take my time explaining nutritional facts and what a balanced diet should look like for women Morgan’s age. But she sure as fuck already knows this shit. Morgan’s problem isn’t ignorance—it’s a lack of time and energy to roll up her sleeves and cook a meal. Nevertheless, I go through the motions, watching her head bob and nod as she politely listens to me.
But when I place the last item in the cart, I find myself praying again, thanking God that the boring shit is over. That I can now focus on Morgan—His best creation since the dawn of fucking time. Hell, I guess I am religious. My Korean aunties would be so proud.
I peek at my watch again—thirty more goddamn minutes until I run my hands and tongue all over God’s best creation. Jiho Jr. throbs at the very thought, and throbs again when Morgan walks in front of me, giving me a perfect view of her ass in those skin-tight jeans.
Uh, yeahhh…
Never mind about the aunties. They, in fact, would not be proud, probably shunning me instead. Worth it.
“What are you thinking about?” Morgan asks as we take our place in line at the checkout counter, her sultry voice flitting into my ears and fueling my throbbing problem even more.
Well, that’s a loaded question, no pun intended.
Should I tell her the truth? Well, Morgan, I’m thinking about ditching this goddamn cart, dragging you into the produce section, and fucking you with my eggplant. Yeah, that would go over well.
“About you,” I say. I mean, it’s not a lie.
She blushes, her eyes averting to one of the magazines on the rack, causing that smile I worked so hard for to all but disappear. I follow her gaze to the latest issue of Magnetique Magazine, a group of skin-and-bones women trying to be sexy on the cover. Yeah, I’ll never understand that. The spotlighted article’s title reads 50 Tricks to Help You Lose Weight.
Dammit.
No way am I going to let fucking Magnetique Magazine ruin my girl’s day. So I move, squeezing between the cart and the magazine rack, grabbing an issue of Visionary Science, and planting my ass between her eyes and the photoshopped skeletons.
Quickly, I flip to an article about favorite colors and how they correlate to personality traits.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask her, tapping on the article headline.
Her eyes soften and knowingly shoot to mine. “Hmm, good question.” Thinking, she folds her arms across her chest, pushing those glorious tits of hers up to the sky. I just know she wore that shirt to torture me, and it’s working. “I’m going to go with yellow.”
“Interesting choice,” I hum, cocking a brow. Flipping to the page about yellow, I read aloud. “ People who like yellow are optimistic and creative. They light up every room they walk into ”—my eyes flick to hers, letting that one land—“ but they can also be impulsive and indecisive. Basically, you’re sunshine with a touch of chaos.” I snap the magazine shut, roll it up, and lightly boop her on the nose. “Everything makes more sense now.”
Morgan narrows her eyes, nose scrunching, and gestures for the magazine. “Give it here, Insufferable Asshole.” I much too happily do as I’m told, and she flips right back to the article.
“My favorite color’s red, Racist,” I say, beating her to the punch and sealing it with a wink.
A scoff leaves her, and her fingers flip through a couple more pages. “People who like red are passionate and confident. They know what they want and aren’t afraid to go after it. However” —she pauses, smirking as she shoots me a look —“their cons include impatience and stubbornness, usually acting before thinking.” She shuts the magazine. “This is oddly accurate. I think I’ll buy it just in case I can’t figure you out.”
“Sure, but you don’t need it,” I say casually with a shrug. “I’ll tell you and show you everything you need to know.” And I’ll be damned, that bottom lip of hers went right back under her teeth. I wish Jina was here so I could finally prove to her that I’ve got game. I’m tired of her ball-busting shit.
For a second, Morgan and I must forget where we are—until the cashier lady loudly snaps, “Next,” throats clearing behind us.
Morgan flinches. If the word uncomfortable could materialize on someone’s face, it’d be hers right about now. Clearly, she doesn’t like eyes on her.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I jump in, shuffling back to the front of the cart. My hands find Morgan’s waist as I move around her, pulling her focus back to me. Grounding her.
Luckily it works—Morgan moves with me, piling the groceries on the belt. Looking at all the items, I realize I’ll have to bring my truck next time.
Yes—next time.
My plan is to spend as much time with Morgan as possible in the next three months. Then, maybe when she goes to Seoul, she won’t forget who the fuck I am. I just have to man up and ask her to date me. Jesus, I feel like a goddamn teenager.
Morgan, will you be my girlfriend? Blech.
Maybe Jina’s right, and I don’t got game.
Goddammit.
On the drive back to her place, I try to find the right moment to ask her to go steady—nope, that’s just as bad—but she keeps flipping through that damn magazine, spouting fun little science facts. I’m not even mad about it, though, actually finding the tidbits a little interesting.
For instance, did you know that a cloud can weigh about a million pounds? No? Now you do. You’re fucking welcome.
But it’s when she turns the page to an engineering article that I’m truly in awe of her.
Turns out, my girl’s a mechanical engineer and smart as fuck. K-Tech, a semiconductor—whatever the hell that is—promoted her to Staff Engineer and is sending her to Korea to learn how they get shit done over there, in hopes of implementing that same shit in the American branch.
“Sorry, I’m rambling,” Morgan mutters as we pull into her driveway.
“Babycakes, I’ll happily listen to you ramble until it raises my grade point average.” When she rolls her eyes, I lay it on further. “Mind role playing as my teacher in a pencil skirt? With glasses?”
To my surprise, she looks me dead-ass in the eyes and says, “Depends. Will you be a good student?”
My poor, goddamn dick.
I look at my watch again. Eleven more fucking minutes. I try not to seem too eager while helping her bring in the groceries and put them away.
Three more minutes.
Once she places the last items in the fridge and closes the door, Morgan slides her hands into her pockets. “Well, thank you for the lesson and for coming with me. It was really fun.”
I keep my eyes on my watch—two more minutes. “Yeah, it was. I’ll make it more fun next time.”
“Next time?”
“Every time.”
“You’re coming with me to the grocery store every single time?”
I look up from my watch just long enough to say, “You better believe it, babycakes.”
Her tongue clicks. “I told you not to call me that.” Then she huffs. “And are you running late or something? You keep looking at your watch, and I’m trying to—”
I hold up a finger. “Thirty more seconds.”
“Until what?” she asks, bracing an irritated hand on her hip, popping it out to the side.
But I don’t answer. Instead, my eyes flick to hers, and she sees exactly what I’m thinking and feeling. Fucking wanting.
Only when her lips part and her eyelids lower do I start counting down. “Five.” My eyes hold hers. “Four.” She blinks. “Three.” I close our distance. “Two.” A hand on her face, a hand on her waist. “One.”