Chapter 17
LOREN
Hey! I hope you made it to the hotel safe and sound.
I miss you
Wish you were here
12:07 AM
Happy new year!
August ditched us.
Not that it should be a surprise since he and his date barely came up for air all night.
Still, I’m sorry he’s not here to ease this weird tension that seems to be crackling in the air between Elliott and me.
It’s probably all in my head because my neighbor doesn’t seem the least bit affected as he strolls up the hill, hands in his pockets and eyes straight ahead.
Meanwhile, my head is spinning like the Scrambler at the county fair.
To make matters worse, my feet are killing me, and we still have a long way to go before we get to Elliot’s truck.
Maybe if I focus on the pain, I can use it to distract myself from the lust overcoming my loins.
That’s right: Loren Piper is hella-horny.
Are we still saying hella?
Either way, it’s facts.
I may have a boyfriend, but right now, I can’t even picture Josh’s face.
All I can see is Elliot claiming that woman’s mouth. The way his big hands slid around her waist. How his biceps flexed when he lifted her up so her legs could wrap around his slim hips.
Elliott Grant wins New Year’s hands-down.
All I got were sloppy seconds.
Should I tell Josh I kissed someone to celebrate?
The thought makes me chuckle. Then again, he’d have to answer his phone for me to share the big news.
Elliott glances over at me, his brow furrowing. “What’s so funny?”
“Just wondering if I should tell Josh that I kissed someone else tonight.”
For some reason, the confession doesn’t make him smile. He’s looking at me, so he must’ve heard what I said, but he doesn’t respond.
I guess that’s the end of our conversation.
Oh, well.
With nothing better to do, I take out my phone to check for a message from Josh.
Nothing.
He could’ve at least responded to my last text considering he read it almost as soon as the thing went through.
Whoever invented read receipts must be some sort of masochist.
Pain. Focus on the foot pain to distract yourself from the ache in your chest.
We’re not even to the top of the hill when the balls of my feet start to cramp, and I’m pretty sure my heels are more blister than skin at this stage. Elliott keeps walking, but I stop so I can covertly slip out of my shoes and let the cold pavement soothe my feet.
It’s only meant to be a temporary fix, but after I see the blood gluing my hose to my poor heels, there is no way I’ll be putting these devil shoes back on.
I turn around to find Elliott’s hands planted on his hips and a scowl on his face.
“I fucking knew it.”
“Knew what?” I swallow my grimace as I hobble forward, shoes hooked in one hand and my purse looped in the other.
“That those shoes were going to hurt your feet.”
Surprise, surprise. Another man saying, “I told you so.” Exactly what the world needs since we don’t hear the phrase nearly enough. “I’m in pain. I need sympathy, not judgment.”
Elliot drags a hand down the back of his neck and curses again before turning around and squatting down. “Come on.”
I stare, not sure what he wants me to do. Am I supposed to squat too?
“Get on my back, Loren.”
Uh, yeah. That is not happening. “I’m not getting on your back.”
He rises and stalks toward me, his eyes narrowing with irritation. Not gonna lie, it’s kinda hot if you’re into the whole “dark-haired, broody guy” thing.
I wish I could say I’m not but I am. I totally am.
“You’re going to step on a rusty nail and need a tetanus shot, and then I’ll feel guilty,” he grinds out.
So much for a knight in shining armor. He’s more like a snarly dragon. Something I also happen to be into thanks to my latest Romantasy obsession. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really feel like flashing all of Broadway with my underwear tonight.”
The outfit might be cute, but the underwear beneath is not.
In my defense, life has been hella busy (I’m bringing it back, okay?), and I haven’t done laundry in a while.
Just when I think he’s going to drop it, Elliott picks me right off the sidewalk and throws me over his shoulder like a fireman.
Now, that is a sexy job. Firemanning.
Elliott could be a fireman. He certainly has the strong arms and the ass for it. Damn, he fills out those jeans.
Stop looking!
Horny Loren is the worst, especially when she notices the largeness of the warm, calloused hand now resting on the back of her thigh.
Logically, I know it’s to keep my skirt from flipping up and giving the whole city a good gander at my underthings, but the orgasm-deprived part of me wonders what it’d feel like to have that hand slip under the material instead of holding it flat.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the true reason I didn’t drink tonight.
Not to avoid a hangover, but because I could feel myself being pulled like a magnet to this man, and drunk Loren has been known to make poor decisions.
Like the time I stripped bare and jumped into a frozen lake in the dead of winter.
I had to lock her down and remind that wild child that she is in a committed relationship and sexy neighbors who make out with other women right in front of her do not get to ride this merry-go-round, no matter how big his hands are.
My purse flops against the back of Elliott’s thigh with each step he takes. Meanwhile, there’s nothing for me to do but wait for him to get tired and put me back down.
Up, up, up the hill he goes, waiting at crosswalks, dodging rowdy crowds drunkenly making their way up and down Broadway.
He’s had quite a few drinks. Shouldn’t he be the one getting carried? Not that I’d have a hope of lifting him if he were to fall over.
“This is ridiculous,” I grumble.
“No, those shoes you wore are ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Next time, you’re not getting into my truck unless you have on proper footwear.”
“I’ll have you know that I’ve owned those shoes for years and never gotten one blister.” It’s true. Mostly. The first time you wear something doesn’t count.
He snorts like he knows I’m a lying liar. We make it up the hill, and he still hasn’t put me down. Which is pretty dang extraordinary considering I’m not a small woman.
If I were a tiny little teacup poodle like Smokey Pam (the name I’ve given Elliott’s date), it’d be no big deal. But I’m more like a…a mastiff. Or a wolfhound. Yeah, a wolfhound. That’s what I am. So while I am still very annoyed by the time we reach the truck, I am also quite impressed.
Elliott puts me down, not on the ground, but on the running board on the driver’s side. I have to hold onto the roof rack to keep from slipping off.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” he says.
I blink down at him with an innocent smile. “For what?”
He rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest.
Is he seriously going to stand there and wait for me to thank him? “Thank you, Elliott.”
Still, he doesn’t move.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to find my keys.”
Right. Since he gave me the keys.
Now, this should be a fairly simple task; however, I brought make-up in case I needed to reapply so there’s a good bit more in my purse than there normally would be.
Like mascara. Lip gloss. A pack of tissues. Let’s see…
“Tell me you didn’t lose them in the black hole.”
“Don’t call my purse a black hole.” Although that is an apt description.
I’m sorry I didn’t think of it. “Hold this.” I hand him the makeup and continue rooting around.
Oh god. I think I just touched something furry.
Whew. Just my scrunchy. I toss that at Elliott as well. There are my keys, but where are his?
Crap.
“Loren?”
“They’re in here. Just give me a sec. Do you have a flashlight?”
“Black holes eat light,” he mutters, shifting my stuff into his other arm so he can retrieve his own phone from his pocket and flick on the flashlight.
Now that I can see, I manage to locate his keys under the reusable straw Meg gave me the other day. “Found them.”
A grumbling Elliott drops my stuff back into my purse and then rounds the front of the vehicle to climb into the passenger seat. By the time I slip into the driver’s side, he already has his seatbelt fastened.
Even as tall as I am, Elliott’s seat takes forever to slide into place, and I can feel his eyes burning a hole into the side of my face.
“Why do you keep looking at me?” It’s unnerving and I don’t like it. Mostly.
“Just making sure you know what you’re doing.”
He can’t be serious. “I know how to drive.” Got my permit at fifteen-and-a-half and haven’t had so much as a speeding ticket except that one time. In my defense, they dropped the limit in town without telling anyone.
He leans against the center console, draping those long fingers of his over the gearshift. “But do you know how to drive well?”
I give his knuckles a flick. “If you get your hand off of this, we’ll find out.”
While I have been driving for over ten years, I should probably mention that I haven’t driven anything bigger than the hearse. This thing has a steering wheel and a gas pedal, so it can’t be that different.
At least that’s what I believe until I need to squeeze out of this teeny-tiny parking space.
The worst part is, Elliott thinks he’s being helpful by telling me what to do. Like I don’t see the neon green Jeep parked behind us.
Newsflash: I do.
With all his side-seat driving, I’m so flustered by the time I pull out of the damn parking lot, that I nearly miss the turnoff for the highway.
“I’m surprised you didn’t want to stay with Pamela.” At least then I could’ve driven home in peace.
“Who?”
“Seriously, Elliott? Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys.” I glance over to find him watching me with a blank expression. “You literally had your tongue down the woman’s throat thirty minutes ago.”
“Her name was Tamela.”
I think I’d remember if the woman’s name was Tamela. “No, it wasn’t.”
His lips twitch. “Yes, it was.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Why don’t I text August and find out?” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws his phone. The bright screen highlights the stubble on his chin and casts his eyes in shadow.
Eyes on the road, Loren.
“Go right ahead.” Because I’m right…right? Of course, I am. “What do I get if I’m right?”
He drops his phone into the empty cupholder. “What do you want?”
Excellent question. Something good. Something embarrassing for him. Something like… “You have to feed me for a week. And you have to buy whatever food I say.” Might as well get something useful from this bet.
“Done.”
Okay, that was unexpected. Why did he agree so quickly? I could tell him I want filet mignon every day or lobster.
Mmm. Lobster.
“When I have proof that you’re wrong, I want crab cakes every day this week,” he says, that cocky smile back in full force.
I can’t afford that. Crab is expensive.
Not that it matters because her name wasn’t Tamela.
“Fine.”
Elliott taps the screen on the dash and turns on some music.
We catch the tail end of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” then the beginning chords of Def Leopard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blare through the speakers, which of course makes me think of the time I blared the very same song so I wouldn’t hear my neighbor banging his latest conquest.
Elliott huffs a laugh and cranks the volume, singing along remarkably in tune for a guy who’s had so much to drink. It’s Def Leopard, so of course I join in. I’m not a monster.
By the time we get to our apartment complex, we’ve made it through eight power ballads.
I park kinda far away, but it’s the only space that looks big enough for this mammoth vehicle.
The moment I shift into park, his phone lights up with a message. I grab for the thing, but of course his big hand gets in the way, and he gets to it first.
Elliott’s laugh booms through the cab, rattling my eardrums.
When he holds the phone across the center console, my stomach sinks.
AUGUST
Really, dude? Her name is Tamela
“I like to eat dinner at six,” Elliott says, handing me my purse from where he threw it on the back seat.
I drop the keys into his palm with a glower. “Fine, but you buy the crab.”
His laughter follows me all the way into my apartment.
As annoyed as I am, I find myself smiling as I throw the deadbolt.
But then I call Josh, and it goes straight to voicemail, and my smile disappears.