I cough lightly, trying to stifle a giggle. Oh my god. Is he for real? Sure, I wanted a guy who was into me, who would pay me more attention than the nearest sports game, but this is all way too much. It’s so . . . scripted.
“I don’t know where to start . . .” I say slowly. “I mean, I grew up in Toledo. Go Buckeyes! I have one sister, and my parents divorced when I was a kid . . .” I pause, looking around. “It’s kind of cold up here. Do we have reservations we need to get to . . . ?”
“What do you say we skip dinner and just take this night to the next level?” Dylan leans closer, so he’s practically purring in my ear. “I can think of better way to satisfy our . . . appetites.”
His hand suddenly slides down to cup my ass, and squeeze it, too, for good measure. My eyes widen so much that I’m surprised they don’t pop out of my head.
So much for romance.
I’m tempted to deliver a swift knee to his groin to show him just how my appetite is working, but at the last second, I remember: I need this guy for the exhibition. Dammit! I’m going to have to wriggle out of this one without getting arrested for assault.
“Umm, thanks,” I say, backing out of his vise-like grip. “But I’m suddenly . . . not feeling so well. I think I better take a rain check.”
“Then maybe I should take you home,” he says, his face full of faux concern. “Tuck you into bed?” He winks suggestively, and it’s still so damn cheesy I can’t help it this time: a laugh escapes my lips and I have to fake a coughing fit to cover it up, slapping one hand over my mouth.
“Uh, I don’t think so,” I say when I manage to straighten up, wiping the tears from my eyes and hoping that my mascara isn’t smeared all over my face. “I’m really not feeling well and I think I just need to go home and . . . rest.”
“This strike of yours can’t last forever, you know,” he says, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.
I freeze. So he does know about the strike—along with everyone else on the planet, it seems. So that’s all this was? Finally a guy sweeps me off my feet, but for entirely the wrong reason. God forbid I should actually have a date with someone that wants to go out with me, oh, I don’t know . . . because he actually likes me or something!
“We’ll see about that,” I say calmly, putting distance between us before I really do some damage. “But right now, going home alone seems like a great plan to me!”
Once I’m back out on the street, I toss the flowers in the nearest trashcan. I know Dylan’s an ass, and I should have seen through him from the start, but I was so dazzled by all his talk about finding something real I didn’t stop to ask myself why he was coming on so strong.
Sure, romantic gestures and pretty flowers are nice, but they’re not the point of all of this. It’s no good going on amazing dates if the guy at the other side of the table STILL only wants one thing. Fuck, it looks like this strike is having the exact opposite effect of the one I wanted: instead of clearing the decks of guys just looking to get laid, I’m attracting the ones who see me as some kind of conquest now.
Like Jake?
I try not to think about him, but boy, is it hard. Somehow all our animosity is producing the craziest sexual tension. The more cocky and irritating he gets, the more I want him back down between my thighs, finishing what he started on New Year’s Eve. Because as far as I can recall, that shit was amazing . . .
. . . Up until the minute he passed out.
Right. That.
I sigh and shake it off. It’s a gorgeous night, the warm wind blowing gently through the streets, with people out enjoying drinks and dinner. I realize I’m just a few blocks from my favorite classic movie theater, so instead of writing off the night entirely, I stroll over to it to see if there’s anything that can distract me from the mess of my love life. My heart leaps in my chest when I see a Die Hard marathon advertised on the marquee! I mean, there’s really nothing that two hours immersed in intense action scenes with a shirtless, sweaty Bruce Willis can’t cure, as far as I’m concerned. What I need is a big tub of popcorn and an even bigger dose of fantasy to take me out of this mood.
I walk determinedly into the brightly lit lobby, the delicious buttery scent of popcorn filling my nose, and I buy a ticket, walking toward the concession stand. Usually I bring brownies for Brad, the projectionist, but I’m empty-handed tonight, so I get in line for snacks.
There’s a guy in a suit in front of me, buying a tub of popcorn bigger than my skull, and there’s something about the way he stands that looks so familiar . . . When he turns around, I find myself looking into the eyes of Jake Weston, who, against all odds, is smiling like he’s actually glad to see me.
Smiling, and smoking hot, and bearing popcorn.
Oh. Fuck.
Forget Bruce Willis—I may just get a lot more action tonight then I bargained for.
17
Lizzie
“Of all the theaters in all of the world, she walks into mine,” he deadpans, holding the gigantic tub of popcorn close to his chest. The aroma of butter and salt is so intoxicating that I can barely restrain myself from reaching out and taking a handful.
That’s what I get for skipping dinner.
“It’s not your theater, though,” I point out, and then curse myself for snapping. Something about this man makes my hackles rise—and my heart rate, too.
“Your date extra hungry tonight?” I ask, gesturing to his snacks. “I mean, I’m surprised to see you’re dating a woman who actually eats. It’s so revolutionary of you, Jake.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he says, smiling. “And I actually don’t have a date tonight. For once.”
“I’m in shock,” I say, deadpan. “I guess the women of New York have more sense than I gave them credit for.”
“Not as far as I’m concerned.” Jake gives me a look. “I made it halfway through my little black book before giving up. Someone’s been giving them ideas about romance and courtship.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “Serves you right. Don’t worry,” I add, grinning. “You’ll get used to it. Who knows, you might even learn a thing or two.”
“Believe me, I know everything I need to about women,” he says, sounding way too confident. “Give it another couple of weeks, and you’ll all be begging for us again. A little something called hormones,” he adds.
I smirk and reach over to steal a handful of popcorn. “I prefer a little something called Lelo,” I reply, naming my trusted vibrator brand. “It charges for eight hours and doesn’t fart in the middle of the night.”
Jake leans closer, still with that irresistible smirk on his face.
Irritating. I mean irritating.
“Sure, a vibrator can try to replace a dick,” he says casually, his voice low. “But what about hands . . . and fingers . . . and mouths . . . ?”
His eyes flash, full of suggestion, and despite myself, I get hot. Because damn, he’s right. There’s nothing like the feel of a hard, masculine body pressing up against me, and someone’s lips driving me crazy, and—