Stella pauses at the door and asks, “Are you going to do the lie thing?”
“Of course. Even though I’m irritated with you, that was a brilliant idea.” I shove her out the door as she smiles.
“Good, but remember, in order to make it believable, ease him into it. You can’t just go spouting off information, because he’ll see right through you.”
“Ugh, I’m not stupid.” I roll my eyes even though that’s good advice, because I was ready to spout gibberish the minute he walked through the door.
“Okay, let us know how it goes, and if this works, you owe me a box of donuts.”
“If this works, I’ll get you a box, every week, for a month.”
“Deal!”
“Now, leave.” I shove them out the door, but I catch Pike approaching with a bag of carryout in hand, his motorcycle helmet in the other.
“Well, hello, Mr. Greyson.” Stella wiggles her fingers at him. “Wifey is waiting for you.”
He smirks. “Yeah? She tell you all about the marital bliss we’ve been living in?”
Stella snorts. “Of course. How’s the floor, by the way? Find the perfect spot yet?”
“Working on it.” And then he winks.
Freaking winks.
Did marriage make him come alive or something? He was never like this before. Very elusive, very quiet, very withdrawn. But now he’s a whole new man? What the hell is that about?
“Is it weird to say if I weren’t madly in love with Romeo, I might take that motorcycle for a ride?” Stella asks.
“Yes,” I shout. “Now get out of here.”
“See you at school tomorrow.” He gives them a nod and then turns his attention to me. Those dark, piercing eyes strike me first, followed by a cheeky grin as he approaches me. I’m standing in the doorway, arms crossed. When he reaches me, he pauses, and then to my horror—and absolute delight—he leans down and presses a light kiss to the top of my head. “Happy to see me?” he asks.
“No,” I say flatly and then move into the apartment and toward the kitchen, where I gather plates and silverware for dinner, trying to ignore the wave of butterflies that erupted in my stomach from that peck.
That’s all it was, a peck. A simple touch. There was nothing sexual about it, and yet, it felt far too intimate.
This is the problem—he’s too . . . enigmatic.
Everything about him is appealing, everything but the fifty-dollar gold ring on his finger. A ring I placed there.
“I hope you like calzones.” He leans close to me, his chest to my back. “I got one for us to share.”
And just like that, my body heats up and my brain fights the urge to part my legs.
That motherfucker . . .
Pike brought his A-game tonight.
I mean . . . A-GAME!
From the cologne he’s wearing, to the deep tone in his voice, to the way he licked sauce off his fork throughout dinner, all I could think about was how much I wanted to be that fork.
I’ve never been one to sexualize every movement a man makes, but that’s changed ever since Pike picked up the calzone like a freaking barbarian and split it in half with his bare hands.
BARE HANDS!
Who does that?
The civilized—you know, polite humans who have learned to use utensils throughout evolution—use things called knives to cut objects. Not their bare hands.
But, oh my God, watching Pike split that calzone in half, his strong man hands flexing in the process . . . it took everything in me not to heave a deep, throaty moan.
And when he handed me my plate with half of the torn-apart calzone, all I wanted to say was “Thank you, sir. Now put those hands to good use between my legs.”
I bet if I did say that, he would, without delay, and then I would be gone.
It would be over from there.
Because that tongue . . .
Those hands . . .
His voice . . .
I can easily imagine sex with Pike being the best sex I’ve ever had.
“You’re not sneering. Does that mean you liked the calzone?” Pike asks, taking my empty plate to the sink.
Yeah, I liked it because it wasn’t charred to death and I didn’t make it.
“It was good . . . thanks,” I say, offering him an olive branch. Well, an olive branch meant to lure him into the vault of lies I’m ready to spew in his direction.
His head peeks up from the sink and a genuinely shocked expression crosses his face.
Aw, I almost feel bad for giving him hope, because it’s there, in his eyes. A sign of unbridled hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s cracked my armor. Little does he know . . .