Chapter 2 #2
I snort a laugh.
Oliver and Chloe have been hot for each other since they were teenagers. They even made a marriage pact together back then. But they’ve always been pathetically in denial about their feelings.
Watching the two of them pretend to be platonic is always entertaining. And after the difficult conversation I just had with Cynthia, I’m desperate for a stiff drink and some free entertainment. So I head off in the direction of the booze.
As I lean against the bar, waiting to place my drink order, I hear someone whistle. Um…did I just get cat-called?
“Hey there, handsome,” a feminine voice purrs. “Looking mighty good in that button-up shirt of yours.” The heavily-perfumed woman seated on the stool beside me bites down on the straw in her bright orange drink.
Whatever. I grumble, not bothering to make eye contact with her.
Tammy is my mom’s age. She’s a waitress at Eggs N Oats, the local breakfast spot. She’s also a professional gossip and a world-class flirt.
At my lackluster response, she splutters a laugh, tilting her head to the side. “My gosh, Lincoln! Would it kill you to smile now and then?”
On second thought, forget the drink. I don’t have the energy to smile. And I definitely don’t have the energy to talk to anyone.
I make an abrupt U-turn. “Have a great evening, Tammy.” Then I’m gone.
People are always giving me shit for being grumpy and uptight. I wouldn’t say I’m either of those. I’m focused. While the rest of my brothers are still out there making the most of their twenties and having fun in their lives, I recently just hit thirty. I’ve got responsibilities.
I own a business. I’ve been married and divorced. I have an eight-year-old son depending on me.
So yeah, if I’m a little uptight, I’d say I have every reason to be.
I decide to forgo the party animals in the yard and go off in search of Cameron.
I find my little boy in the kitchen with his cousin, Jagger. Their faces, hands, and shirts are covered in a sticky, blue popsicle mess, and it’s definitely past their bedtime. Yet still, they’re trying to sweet-talk the person concealed by the refrigerator door into giving them more popsicles.
The boys don’t notice me yet, as I watch them from the hallway.
I’m ready to storm in there and lay down the law.
But my plan screeches to a halt when the fridge door closes, revealing a woman in skin-tight, curve-kissing ripped jeans.
She spins away from the refrigerator with a blue popsicle clutched in each hand.
The boys squeal in unison, snatching the frozen treats away from her. “Thank you, Jules,” they singsong as they eagerly rip the crinkly cellophane packaging open.
Jules plants her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed on the mischievous boys. “Are you guys sure it’s okay to eat popsicles at this time of the night? It’s kind of late…” Her skeptical gaze bounces back and forth between the sugar-happy duo.
“Yeah, for sure!” Jagger replies, lying through his teeth. “Mimi wouldn’t mind.”
“And my mom lets me eat popsicles for dinner all the time,” Cameron piles on with a syrupy smile.
“We’re totally allowed.” Jagger nods with enthusiasm.
When I’ve had enough of their lies, I step into the kitchen. “Boys!” I bark, making them startle.
They jump like first-time burglars who just got caught red-handed.
“So you think you’re slick, conning the lady, huh?” I stare them both down.
Cameron’s gaze hits the floor. “Sorry, Dad.”
Jagger pouts and gives me puppy dog eyes. “We were hungry, Uncle Lincoln.”
I’m not falling for it.
“Hand them over.” I stick a palm out in their direction.
Jules urgently steps in front of the rascals, not hesitating to be their personal shield. “You’re going to take the popsicles away from them?” She narrows her eyes at me like I’m some kind of monster.
Whoa. Her eyes—they’re pretty.
This is the first time I’ve ever been this close to Jules, and I’ve never seen that shade of brown. Like honey swirled into cognac. Warm and sweet with flecks of spicy indignation.
I stand there like a dumbstruck fool until her dark eyebrow hikes upward in challenge. It’s only then that my focus snaps back to the situation at hand.
“Yes. I’m taking the popsicles away from them,” I confirm without apology.
“But they’ve already opened them,” Jules argues on their behalf. She lowers her voice. “You can’t take popsicles away from children, Lincoln. That’s mean. You might as well let them finish.”
Her eyes…I’m downright disoriented.
I search my skull for a rebuttal. I’m in the middle of an argument here. I know I’m supposed to fight back. But regaining my bearings is impossible when I’m still fixated on figuring out the color of her eyes.
“Fine. You boys can finish the popsicles,” I hear myself saying, all while unable to rip my stare away from Jules’s.
Cameron flings his arms up in victory. Jagger lets out a shrill whoop of celebration.
What?! Wait—what the hell just happened?
I snap back into Dad Mode, throwing the cousins a stern glance. “But that means no dessert tomorrow,” I say, sounding as lame as I feel. It’s too late for tough love. The boys already know they’ve won this round.
Maybe Cynthia’s right to be worried. I’m already screwing this up.
Smirking their little faces off, the two little rugrats both dive into their sugar sticks. They eat voraciously, like they’re scared I might change my mind again.
The boys are finishing up their popsicles just as my mom appears in the kitchen.
“Oh my. Look at these sticky hands,” she says, immediately grabbing some paper towels and dampening them in the kitchen sink. Mom then turns to me. “I’m going to take the boys to get cleaned up and tucked into bed, if that’s okay?”
Alba is currently getting her realtor business off the ground and she recently helped me find the perfect home for my son and me on the other side of town. But with the party happening tonight, the boys are having a sleepover here. They couldn’t be more excited about it.
“That’d be great,” I say to my mother. “Please make sure they brush their teeth extra thoroughly.” I make a point to shoot the kids my best I-mean-business stare.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Jules. She looks amused by the whole scene, barely holding back a snicker. That damn troublemaking woman.
I sigh, returning my attention to my mother. “Thanks, Mom. Appreciate you helping with these punks.”
She just chuckles as she gives Jules’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
Thanks to Alba, the two of them became friends over the summer. Now, every other sentence out of my mother’s mouth is, ‘Jules this’ or ‘Jules that’. It gets on my damn nerves.
“Good night, you guys,” Jules calls out as my mother ushers the kids toward the hallway.
“Bye, Jules-s-s-s!!” the boys yell.
Cameron stops to give me a big, sticky hug before chasing after his cousin and grandmother up the stairs.
The moment the boys disappear, I realize my mistake. I’m now left alone with Jules in my brother’s kitchen. I’m left alone with a smoking hot woman who hates my guts.
I don’t even know what I did to be on her shit list. But that’s just fine, because I hate her, too.
“And you—” I say, turning to eyeball her down. “Seriously. Shouldn’t you know better than to get conned by a couple of eight-year-olds?”
She puts her hands in the air, palms up. “What do I know about kids? Besides, there’s a crowd of adults out back, chugging jugs of liquor. How bad can a second popsicle be?"
I want to argue, but dammit, she’s got a point.
She strolls away to peruse the array of snacks laid out on the marble countertop, leaving me to stare at her backside again.
Fuck.
My eyes scan the length of her body, staring without my permission. It’s hard not to, when she’s wearing that tight, practically see-through T-shirt and those even tighter denim jeans. I’m dumbfounded as to how she even got into those jeans.
One of life’s mysteries, I decide.
I cut my eyes at her, sparing her one last look before turning to grab a cold ginger ale from the fridge. Not nearly strong enough, but for now, it’ll do.
My mind rewinds back to when Jules sent me a match request through a dating app out of the blue a few months ago. I never responded. Obviously. I’m sure she sent it just to get under my skin.
But I’ve lost count of how many nights I’ve thought about her with my hand firmly wrapped around my dick. Every time I get off to my thoughts of Jules and her banging body under those daring skintight clothes, I hate myself a little bit more.
I’m too old for this shit. I definitely should know better.
Drink in hand, I spin around to find her leaned against the counter, glaring at me.
I lean against the closed refrigerator door and glare right back at her.
The tension in the air mounts to suffocating levels.
Her raspy voice cuts through the silent kitchen. “Why exactly is it that you don’t like me?”
“I have never said I don’t like you,” I immediately deny with a frown.
She lets out a bad-mannered snort. “Well, that bitchy face you make whenever you see me says it loud and clear.”
Shit. I thought I was better at hiding my feelings. “I just…” I let out a primal grunting sound of my own. “You’re impulsive. And you’re obnoxious. You’re too spontaneous…and…and…”
At a loss for how to explain the strange feelings this infuriating human being makes me feel, I rake my fingers through my hair, messing it all up.
Crap.
I quickly smooth a palm over my now-disheveled strands, trying to slick my hair back in order.
Jules laughs at me. I ignore her.
Spending the past ten years in the corporate world has taught me that having a clean image at all times matters, regardless of how many sloppy-looking fuckers will try to tell you that it doesn’t.
I march past her, pretending to check out the snack buffet on the counter. In reality, I’m just desperate to put some space between us.
Usually, I’m in control. I’m solid. I’m steady. But Jules makes me feel…all over the place.
“Whatever. I’m a good time. And you want me.”
“What?” I start choking on the swig of soda I just took. “Are you crazy? I do not want you!” I glare at her like I’ve got a point to prove.
She stands there, smirking. Like she knows the exact effect she has on me. “Oh yes, you do, Mr. Button-Up. I can see it in your eyes. You may not like me, but you want me.” Her voice drips like melted caramel.
My eyes betray me, momentarily shifting to the red T-shirt stretched too tightly across her perky chest. I’ve seen her wear that red T-shirt before. Life is better without a bra, it announces.
My mouth salivates. Yeah? Tell me more.
I rip my gaze away. I shake my head. I shake it again, and I just keep shaking it. “Jules, trust me. You’re delusional. I don’t want you.”
Undeterred by the rejection, she steps closer to me. So close I can smell her scent. Coconut. Ginger. Sweet leather. Those are the fragrances that come to mind.
“Prove it,” she dares me, those pretty brown eyes glinting under the overhead lights.
I swallow hard. “How?”
Jules glances around the kitchen, as if to confirm that we’re indeed alone. Then she steps even closer, her chest brushing against mine.
“Kiss me.”