“You realize men can be nice, right?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m aware, but apparently I fascinate the assholes.” I flip my hair over my shoulder. “Something I should probably talk to my therapist about.”
“You go to therapy?” he asks, more inquisitive to find out something personal about me than anything.
“I do, but if you think I’m going to tell you why, you have the wrong impression of me.”
“I wouldn’t ask,” he says in a calm tone, and this side of him, this non-grumpy side—I’m not liking it, because it’s not what I was expecting. It’s hard to be mad and angry and irritated at someone when they’re being nice.
Since the water is boiling now, I open the freezer drawer, pull out a bag of peas, and toss them in the water before turning around and asking, “Can you be an asshole, please?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes. I’d prefer you be an asshole. It would make this easier.”
The corner of his lips tilt toward the sky. “Easier? So, what you’re saying is that if I were an arsehole, it would be easier for you to hate me?”
“Precisely.”
“And when I’m not an arsehole, you’re finding it difficult to hate me.”
“Yes . . . wait, no. I mean . . . I always hate you.” Damn it. He’s playing with my head.
“Uh-huh.” He steeples his fingers together. “So, you don’t want me asking you if you need help or how your day was, or making sure you have everything you need?”
Ummm, why am I confused?
Technically, as a woman, that would be nice. Keenan never gave me what I needed; even in the beginning, he always fell short. So, yes, it would be nice to have a man in my life that read me like a book, who anticipated my needs, but in this given scenario when I’m trying to shed a drunken mistake, I don’t want any of those things.
“Listen.” I look him in the eyes. “Just be an asshole, okay?”
“As you wish.” He pushes away from the island, but still faces me. Eyes focused on mine, he reaches behind him and tugs on his shirt.
Oh no . . .
The over-the-head shirt pull-off move.
In my mind, only the sexiest, most assholish men know how to pull off their shirt like that.
As if they all went to a secret class to learn how to remove an article of clothing in the exact way that will drive women nuts.
And he’s doing it.
WITH EYE CONTACT.
My uterus twitches.
My nipples tingle.
And my eyes remain fixed on him as he masterfully pulls his shirt over his head and brings it forward, every muscle in his well-defined chest firing off.
Well, well, well.
I can see that we’re not playing fair, by any means.
He tosses his shirt to the side, letting it fall haphazardly on the floor, and then backs up to the bed, where he flops down and rests his hands behind his head, showing off his impeccably built body.
Mr. Pin Me Down Pike is all kinds of deliciousness. Holy shit.
Sculpted shoulders, biceps that are surprisingly bigger than I expected, pecs that I could find myself getting lost in, abs that travel past the waistline of his jeans, and his most devastating attribute . . . his sleeve tattoo.
What I wouldn’t give to just lick the damn thing.
Clearing my throat, I say, “That’s not where dirty laundry goes.”
“I’m aware. I’m sure my wife will pick it up.” He smirks and then turns on the TV to some sports game.
Well, he’s being an asshole, that’s for sure, but do you know what really chaps my ass? It’s that he’s listening to me. He’s not being an asshole because that’s his inherent nature. He’s being an asshole because I asked him to be one, therefore, he’s actually being a nice guy because he’s listening to my direction.
God!
Can’t a girl win?
I stare in shock as Pike finishes off the rest of the mushy peas in the serving bowl, tops off the last bite of his charred chicken, and then chases it all down with one last over-salted fry.
With his napkin, he pats his mouth, and he then throws back the rest of his lady drink—at least, that’s what he called it, but I refer to it as a sparkling water. I watch as his throat contracts, taking down every last drop.
Good.
God.
He ate it all.
Without a comment. Without saying a word. Without one single complaint.
The only thing he did say was how hideous my outfit was as he sat across from me, gnawing on his chicken. At first, I took great offense, but then realized he was playing the asshole. I wanted to pierce him between the eyes with my fork.