Chapter 23 #2
I mean, I’m cute, but short, scrawny girls with frizzy blond hair who spend most of their time in the raggedy kitchen scrubs because chef whites are pretentious when you run a café in an office building aren’t everyone’s thing.
Neither are short, scrawny girls who never met a weird vintage dress they wouldn’t wear out to the club.
But I’m not in a dress tonight .
I’m in my trying-not-to-be-sad girl uniform of a yellow T-shirt and jeans with sunshine clips in my hair. I’m dressed like a middle school kid and barely bothered with makeup, but this guy is already out of his chair like he won the hot girl lottery.
Instantly, I decide he should be rewarded with pussy.
Enthusiasm in the opposite sex is pathetically rare in this day and age. Therefore, it must be encouraged, and I want to be part of building a better tomorrow.
“Hey, you,” Enthusiastic Cutie says as he slides onto the stool next to mine. “Nice to see you again.”
My brows shoot up. “Again?”
“Yeah, again,” he says, blue eyes dazzling into mine. “You were at the party a few weeks ago.”
Shit, he isn’t excited about me, after all . Cutie thinks I’m someone else.
“Sorry, but no,” I say, hating to toss him back, but I’m not into shoplifting other women’s cuties. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
His brow furrows. “No, it was you. I waved at you across the room, but then you disappeared into the kitchen and… Well, I thought maybe you might have recognized me, but…” He breaks off with a tight laugh. “Apparently not.”
I squint up at him, trying again to place him and failing. “I’m sorry. But I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Yes, we have.” His lips hook up on one side in a smirk that’s also familiar, but then, lots of men smirk.
Then he adds in a steady voice, “Makena,” and I nearly fall off my stool.
My lips part, but before I can ask if he heard Cobb say my name or something, he adds, “Makena DeWitt, alumni of River Ridge High School, fan of cooking, cartoons, adventure, and all kinds of cheese, even the stinky kind.”
My eyes fly wide.
Woah…
He does know me. Gah , hopefully I wasn’t mean to him in high school or something.
I was never a mean girl on purpose or anything, but until I finally came out of my shell, I was really shy.
A lot of people mistook that for me thinking my shit didn’t stink.
When really, I was always afraid that my shit stank even worse than everyone else’s—hence all the keeping to myself and staying quiet until finally the stress of hiding grew greater than the stress of letting myself be seen.
But seriously, I can’t believe we went to the same high school!
I was shy, but not that shy. And I had eyes.
I would have remembered a hottie like this roaming the halls or throwing footballs across the field or jumping into pools, or whatever kind of sports thing he was into.
Some jocks choose the jock life later, but Cutie looks like the kind who’s been going hard at sports his entire life.
Maybe he graduated a few years ahead of me?
Or behind?
“You were a freshman when I was a senior!” I announce, pointing at his face, the tension in my shoulders easing as I finally figure it out.
I probably would have realized right away if the Trash Panda weren’t already going to my head.
“That’s why I don’t recognize you. You grew!
You were probably small and slim and waiting for puberty to up your testosterone, and now…
you’re big.” I spread my fingers wide in a ta-da motion. “Case closed. I’m a detective.”
He grins, and my chair suddenly feels wobbly. Or maybe that’s the earth moving because—woah, that’s my kind of smile. I feel that big, crinkle-eyed grin from lips to my toes as he drawls, “Try sixth grade, but close.”
My brows shoot up. “Oh, wow, so you’re…”
“Twenty-six,” he supplies while I struggle to math the math.
“Oh, okay.” I cock my head. “That’s not so bad. Twelve grade and sixth grade sounds criminal. But twenty-six and thirty-two are…” I trail off, realizing that I’m saying the quiet part out loud.
His grin widens. “Thirty-two is great. And I like that you’re doing the ‘is he old enough to consider kissing’ math out loud. Big fan of inside thoughts becoming outside thoughts.”
My cheeks go hot, but not with pleasure, not embarrassment. “Yeah? You like that I’m a dirty old woman who might think you’re cute?”
He laughs, and it’s hot, too, nearly as hot as the low, husky sound he makes in his throat as he leans in to ask, “Just ‘might?’ I’m not a sure thing yet?”
I shake my head, pulse picking up as his forest-in-summer cologne floods my senses. Even with a hint of Trash Panda breath, he smells delicious.
Hell, considering how much I love this nasty drink, that might even be a plus.
“Not yet,” I purr, “but you’re a contender, kid.”
“Thanks. That’s good to hear.”
His mouth is so close to mine, I can’t help letting my gaze drift down to his lips as I add, “But there’s one thing I need to figure out first.”
“What’s that?” he murmurs, leaning even closer, until I can feel the heat of his mouth on mine, and the chances of a Bar Make Out Event enter threat level orange.
“How we know each other.” My breath catches as his big hand settles on my knee, making things low in my belly tighten.
My panties are in imminent danger as I add in a breathier voice, “Because I didn’t hang out with sixth graders when I was a senior in high school.
” I roll my eyes. “I mean, well, except this kid I used to?—”
I jerk my head back so fast, I nearly tip my stool over as I blurt out, “Parker?”
He grabs the arms of my chair, guiding me safely onto four legs as he grins again. “There you go. I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
“Leo Parker.” I blink. “From Rose Hip Lane?” I blink again. “With the Pokémon card collection, who liked to have the crusts cut off his grilled cheese?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but I mean, I don’t live there anymore. And I donated my Pokémon cards to charity before high school and got way less picky about sandwich crust… But yeah. That’s me,” he says, like this isn’t a disaster.
“I used to be your babysitter ,” I say, horrified that I nearly developed a wet-panty situation for sweet Leo Parker, my little buddy with the chaotic parents and love of watching sweet cartoons long after other boys his age were all about violent video games.
“Yes, you sure did,” he says again, in a tone that suggests he’s concerned that I might have had too much to drink.
“I’m not drunk,” I shoot back as I grip his wrist, moving his hand from my knee to his. Once the dangerous, tingle-inducing hand is back where it belongs, I assure him, “I’m simply shocked and appalled and not about to kiss a sweet little boy I used to?—”
Before I can finish, Parker’s mouth is on mine.
And…the world is no longer the same.
Have you ever had a truly perfect dream?
I’m talking a once-a-year, all-the-stars-have-aligned-to-bless-you kind of dream where everyone you’ve lost is still with you, you’re having a fantastic time, and the entire world feels fresh and new, with no mistakes in it?
Then you wake up, remember that you live alone in a shithole, and all the mistakes you’ve made come rushing back, assuring you that you’ll never be fresh and new again?
Well, Parker’s kiss is the exact opposite of that.
His mouth fits mine like the sweetest dream, and his tongue slips between my lips like a key in a lock. His taste is instantly warm and familiar. Easy and sweet. Electric and safe and hot as fucking hell because damn this boy can kiss .
Before I make a conscious decision to give in to this bad idea, my arms are around his shoulders, threading into his hair at the nape of his neck as I kiss him back with all the enthusiasm of a feral raccoon in a dumpster full of hot wings.
And as our tongues thrust and parry and his fingers curl into my hips through my jeans, I realize this is the best kiss of my life.
Better than Tanner.
Better than the awful, but legitimately sexy man I married.
And way, way better than Chuck.
Chuck is decaf. Parker is a triple espresso. Chuck is a galaxy screensaver. Parker is a live feed direct from outer space. Chuck is plain toast. Parker is crème br?lée set ablaze by a shirtless Frenchman .
“Shirt off,” I mumble against his lips. “I would really like to see you with your shirt off.”
“I would really like to see you with everything off,” he rumbles back, “spread open for me on my bed, soaking wet and begging me to fuck you.”
“Woah! Dude!” I pull back again, sucking in a breath as I lift both hands in the universal sign for “stop the crazy.”
“Too much too soon?” he asks, his electric blue eyes locked on my mouth, which is a lot to handle. But not nearly as bad as if he were looking at, say, my rock-hard nipples that are no doubt straining through the fabric of my shirt.
Seriously, I can’t remember the last time my nipples were this hard.
“Yes,” I breathe, though I’m honestly not sure. “You don’t go from kid I used to babysit to filthy bedroom talk in less than a minute.”
“We’ve been kissing for at least five minutes,” he says, nodding toward the bar. “The guy in the leather vest was starting to get annoyed.”
“I’m not annoyed,” Cobb says, making me cry out and flinch in my chair.
My hand flies to my chest, above my slamming heart. “Shit, Cobb, you scared me. I didn’t know you were there.”
“I know,” Cobb says. “You didn’t know anyone was here, and you were starting to get a little too spicy.”
My eyes widen. “Too spicy for The Brass Monkey?”
Cobb tips his head. “Yep.”
“But I’ve seen people dry hump in the corner more than once,” I say, motioning toward the dark area by the emergency exit. “We weren’t humping. ”
“Not yet,” Cobb counters, arching a wry brow. “And those people were ugly. No one cares if ugly people hump in public. They care if pretty people do it, especially if they’re making little moaning noises.”