Chapter 8 #2
“Haven’t drunk since I was trying to get pregnant,” she said, cheersing herself. “And since that dream is now gone and I’m giving up, I’m splurging.”
“I’m sure you could find some man to badger into your vision,” he said, picking at some lint on his sweater.
She set her wine glass down and flopped onto the couch, feeling tired all of a sudden. “No one wants to bang a six-foot-tall woman with control issues and then co-parent with her.”
He took a sip from her wine glass, grimacing. “God, this is awful.” He downed the rest of it.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you still here? On my couch, drinking my wine?”
“Your terrible wine,” he said, setting the empty glass on a coaster.
Fuck you, Wells, for using a coaster on my coffee table that I love. At least have the decency to be a careless asshole so I can hate you.
He paused, finally looking her in the eyes. “I’m moving back to Fairwick Falls. Just…wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Noooooo,” she said, closing her eyes with disappointment. God. She’d see him all the time. Allison sighed, flopping her head back on the couch, swimming in misery.
“Yes,” he said definitively.
“You can’t…I live here,” was the stupid, nonsensical reasoning that she blurted out.
“I was here first,” he said, looking annoyed. “Happy to show you my track and field trophies at Fairwick Falls Elementary.”
Her lips twitched at the idea of an enormous little boy dominating other little kids. “What did you medal in? Running away from commitment? Shot putting emotional baggage through people’s happy marriages?”
“Alright, look—”
“Can you afford those nice sweaters and expensive watches with the low divorce rate here?” She grabbed another cookie from her endless supply on the coffee table, snuggling into her couch.
He considered her. “Maybe I won’t be a divorce lawyer.”
“Gonna go back to track?” she said through a mouthful of cookie.
He laughed suddenly, and she forced her lips down so she didn’t smile too.
“Since this town is small—”
“Microscopic,” Allison moaned with a hand over her eyes.
“—I wanted to offer a truce.”
He’s being civil. Something is afoot.
She narrowed her eyes. “What did you bring as a peace offering? Was it perhaps two hundred thousand dollars?”
He turned to face her on the couch, his mustache twitching with a smile. “I can bring terrible wine next time, now that I know you like it.”
“Mmm, no,” she said with a sarcastically sweet smile. “I don’t get to be mean in my life, and I need a deserving recipient. Lest I remind you, mashed potatoes—”
“That was an accident—”
“Covered, Wells. Covered head to toe in mashed potatoes. I have potato flashbacks. The smell of butter makes me panic-sweat. I’m still finding bits of potato in my ears.”
His eyes danced with delight, and it only made her madder. “I think that says more about your hygiene than about me.”
She smacked the pillow on the couch for emphasis. “You launched a schnauzer-sized pan of mashed potatoes at me—”
“No,” he interrupted. “It slipped out of my hand because of the butter.”
“A likely alibi for a professional liar.”
“That’s not what alibi—” He wiped a hand down his face. “Ugh. I hope you hold as deep of a grudge at Keith’s dry cleaner, accountant, and hairstylist. I was merely providing a service to your incredibly stupid ex-husband.”
“You went for the jugular, and you know it. I was trying to be nice. I’m the first person in the history of divorces who wanted to just…get along. I wanted to make it easy on everybody.”
Wells barked out a surprised laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I did,” she argued, getting onto her knees to emphasize her point. “I tried to make everything fair and easy.”
His look was pitying. “Why? So he’d love you again?”
The cold splash of gasoline he’d thrown onto her anger ignited into a fireball. “It’s time for you to go.”
She stood, but her long pajama pants got caught between the couch cushions. Tugging her leg to free it, it finally released, and she flung her leg over the coffee table.
“Watch it,” Wells barked. “Candles—”
The room turned sideways as he yanked her toward the couch.
“Unhand me—!”
She flailed, landing smack against Wells with her arm trapped under her. Her boobs landed in his face, and she straddled him as he swatted at her ass.
“You’re on fire!”
She shoved back from him, but his arm gripped hard around her hips as he hit her ass harder. She grasped the couch for balance, almost knocking over her antique oil lamp collection.
“No, I’m not. Stop”—she smacked at him, pushing his face awkwardly with one hand—“being weird.”
She pushed and swatted until he grabbed both her wrists, pinning them back behind her.
“Stop hitting me,” he gasped, irritated.
The fire of a thousand suns fueled her righteous anger. “You were smacking my ass.”
“Because the embers from your pants, which I assume are made from asbestos and matchsticks, transferred there.” He transferred her wrists to one hand and held up the loose, singed material of the cuff of her pajama pants. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
The light pink fabric with bumblebees on it was still smoking.
“Oh,” she panted.
Whoops.
He still held her wrists behind her back. She straddled the wide expanse of his thighs.
He panted and the peppermint scent of his breath danced on her tongue, inches from her face.
She wondered what he’d taste like. Like the wine or his cologne, or like when his tongue had tasted like lust four years ago.
“Now,” he said in a low voice, his eyes roaming her face, “since I saved you from being engulfed by bergamot-scented flames, truce?”
She couldn’t take her eyes off his lips.
His expensive silky cologne wrapped around her, clouding her judgment. His hand was warm and tight on her wrists.
“Never,” she whispered, but there was no heat in it.
That stupid mustache shouldn’t work, but it did on him. Like a goddamn sexy train conductor.
His thumb swiped along her pulse point. Her breath hitched as her nipples hardened against the soft material of her tank top.
His eyes darted down to her lips, inches away from his, and then continued lower. A whisper of his breath traveled along her collarbone until his gaze landed where her breasts gently lifted and fell with each breath.
To where she wasn’t wearing a bra.
He brazenly took his time looking at her, the sound of their breaths the only thing in the room.
She could tug out of his grasp easily.
But part of her wanted to be here, wanted attention, to be noticed by him.
He pulled her wrists down, making her back arch, and a dark glint shone in his eyes.
He blatantly, unapologetically stared at them, looking hungry as his jaw ticked.
Hard throbbing pulsed between her thighs at his stare.
He considered her, angling his head, studying her, never taking his eyes off the nipples poking against the tank top inches from his face.
She was horrified to realize she liked it—liked being stared at, objectified.
He licked his lips as he continued to take his fill, and she leaned toward him, arching into him. Wanting something she wouldn’t dare ask for.
She never felt sexy, but now? The potion of wine, the candlelight, and—oh god—him unlocked some secret sex vixen in her.
His breath sighed onto her skin where her tank top dipped, the heat radiating against the curve of her breast.
Until finally, he dragged his gaze back up to hers.
There was no mistaking that he wanted her.
That was a heady rush, and her clit throbbed between her legs at knowing he wanted her so badly.
“You should drink some water. You’re drunk,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
“You’d have to let go of my hands.”
The air crackled between them like a dare. Who would break first?
“You going to keep hitting me?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Only one way to find out.”
He let go of her wrists, and she stayed where she was for a beat, straddling him, breasts in his face.
His hands settled on her hips, and the weight of them felt so right.
She could stay. Throw herself at him.
Claim it was the cheap wine’s fault.
Be kissed by a man who knew what he was doing.
Or…she could do the responsible thing.
Boring, old Allison. Always responsible.
She slowly lifted up, enjoying the way his eyes followed her breasts, until finally she sat next to him on the couch.
He stared at the ceiling, blowing out a slow breath.
“You should go,” she said nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t wanted to stick her tongue down his throat two seconds ago.
He licked his lips and closed his eyes. “Need a minute.”
“Why?”
He glared at her. “You can guess what happens when a tit-loving dude is straddled by a woman with excellent tits who’s not wearing a bra, no matter how annoying she is.”
She shrugged, holding his gaze.
She sort of wanted to see it. She’d felt glimpses of his cock in their very brief makeout session in the elevator, but was it to scale—so to speak—for his 6’5” frame?
“My delicate sensibilities are not afraid of your penis.”
He shrugged as if to say, “Alright, told you so,” and stood in the small space between the couch and the coffee table.
Allison blinked her eyes to clear them. She refused to rub them as she tried to understand what she was staring at.
Holy moly.
She’d heard the phrase “lead pipe” before but had never seen one in person.
“Sensibilities intact?” he said, smiling wickedly.
“V-very,” she lied, not looking him in the face as she stood.
“So. Truce?” He stuck out his hand.
She looked at it like it might bite her. “Why?”
He gulped, fiddling with his watch. “We might have more in common than you think.”
But no matter how many glasses of wine she’d had, she was smarter than that. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He dropped his hand and zipped his jacket. He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving her lips.
Her breath caught.
Was he going to kiss her?
He leaned down slowly, and she hovered in indecision.
He looked wistful and wanting, biting his lip.
She licked her lips and lifted her chin, angling her head. An inch, then half an inch from his lips.
Until he whispered, “So be it,” and pulled away with a judgmental smirk.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she flushed with full-body embarrassment and anger.
He didn’t even look back as he sauntered out the door.
As the door shut hard behind him, Allison grabbed the nearest heart-shaped pillow to scream into.