The Lucky in Love Collection - Lauren Blakely Page 0,92
said Derek and I could practice kissing. That means Derek doesn’t simply know I mentioned him to Shaw—he knows I told Shaw about our kiss. Red spots of embarrassment flame across my cheeks. “Wait, Derek.” I grab his arm before he picks up the bag. “I didn’t tell him to find you and rent it to you. I didn’t know you guys knew each other. Please don’t think I was trying to trap you or anything.”
He chuckles lightly. “You mean you aren’t trying to trap me?”
“I’m so not trying to trap you. I’m trying to kick you out,” I say, laughing, then I let go of his arm.
“I don’t feel trapped, for what it’s worth.” He doesn’t reach for the bag.
“I said something about entering a kissing contest with a guy who had sunburst tattoos,” I say, my eyes straying to his arms. Dear God, his arms. I want to feel them pinning me down, to stare at them as he moves above me.
I shake my head, trying to snap out of it.
“You like my ink?” he asks.
“I do.”
“I have more where that came from,” he says in that low, deep voice that’s an injection of pure liquid pleasure.
So is the vision he’s painted—the idea that art covers his body in places I can’t see right now. I try to wave off the wild images of his hips, his lower back, his abdomen. “Anyway, sorry about the misunderstanding. There wasn’t a trap or plan. Shaw was just being Shaw.”
“It’s all good. I’ll head back to Jodie’s. There’s a couch there calling my name.” This time, he grabs his duffel and slings it over his shoulder. It looks like it weighs three hundred pounds.
I peer around for his bike, but don’t see it. “You’re going to walk back with all your stuff?”
“It’s no big deal. It’s good training for work.”
I point to the bag. “Is that all you have?”
“Yeah, but listen, it’s all good.”
But it’s not all good. It’s all . . . weird. It’s all awkward. And it’s all so uncomfortable—for him.
The man is living on his sister’s couch, out of a duffel.
I’m not heartless enough to kick him completely to the curb. “Why don’t you come in, and we can talk. I’ll try to help you figure something out. Do you like wine?”
His lips curve up. “Am I in trouble if I say no?”
I give him my best staring-down-perps stare. “It’s illegal to dislike wine in wine country. You might, in fact, be banished from the town limits. By me.”
He smiles. “Just messing with you, officer. Of course I like wine.”
“Good answer, Mr. Trouble.”
Winking, he enters and drops his bag on the floor in the entryway.
I head to the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow. As I glance quickly at my mostly neat living room, I’m reminded I wasn’t expecting a man tonight. If I had known he was coming, I’d have done the Swiffer-duster dance, cleaning every surface, spraying the bathroom mirrors, putting away every container of deodorant or bottle of Midol to make sure he never knew I might possibly sweat or have PMS.
I’d have sidled up to the door, a touch of gloss on and something casual but sexy framing my figure.
Instead, I’m in jammies and wearing no face paint. There’s no cosmetic artifice, but what do I have to hide anyway?
In the kitchen, he scans my collection of fridge magnets, which covers almost every square inch of the appliance. They’re nearly all vintage-style pictures of women saying sarcastic things, courtesy of my retro-loving friend, Vanessa.
Yoga class? I thought you said pour another glass.
And I thought I wanted a career. Turns out I just wanted paychecks.
You piqued my indifference.
He smirks, tapping the last one. “Very you.”
“Is it?”
“Full of sass and spark.”
I smile. “You’ve got me there.” I grab a bottle of chardonnay and a wine opener.
“Let me.” He reaches for the bottle before I can say I am woman, I can do it all.
Watching him open the bottle also feeds my inner vixen. Is it my imagination or do those tattoos ripple when his muscles move?
I grab wineglasses and give them to him.
He pours and hands me a glass, raising his own. “Should we drink to good witches? Or bad witches?”
I look down at the ridiculous pattern on the pants. “We’ll drink to Monday night laundry.”
“And to simple misunderstandings?”
My heart pangs with guilt again as I take a sip. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe he really thought that made sense to rent it to you.”