Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

Sure, I have no time for a relationship, now or ever. That fact is written in stone. If anything came out of approaching blondie, it would be a one-time thing, and I would make sure she knew that up front, out of respect. She might not be interested in casual, but I’m jumping the gun even having those concerns. We haven’t even spoken yet. What is wrong with my man brain? And hell if she’s not still watching me. I’m not sure either one of us has blinked in the last five minutes.

Everyone in the bar cheers, presumably because the Knicks scored, and I use the crowd’s momentum to push forward through a sea of jerseys and half-drank pints. Something crazy happens, though, and it makes my lips curve into a smile.

Blondie jumps off her stool and comes to meet me halfway.





Ever


Oh, he’ll do nicely.

I have a sixth sense when it comes to unavailable men. It has been passed down through many generations of mistresses, going all the way back to my great-great-grandmother, Babs Carmichael. She created what I secretly refer to as the Mistress Manifesto, although the rules have never been written down on actual paper. That would be tacky. No, our means of survival are stored in the locked vault of my heart, same as they are for my mother.

Those rules are as follows:

Remain independent. This little gem is what has kept our lifestyle thriving for so long. We depend only on ourselves for that pretty green paper. No gifts. No personal information exchanged that could lead to messy entanglements. No holidays spent together, especially Christmas and/or birthdays.

Never let the arrangement last past one month. We’re not made of stone. Sure, we’re using men to fulfill our needs, but even the staunchest of emotionally distant mistresses can fall prey to the right set of dimples and sweet talk. One month is enough time to get a man out of your system without either party getting too comfortable. Or in too deep. One month means leaving the man before he leaves you.

Choose only unavailable men. This is the only rule I have modified slightly to fit . . . well, me. While my mother and her predecessors had no qualms making time with married men, I believe it’s wrong. So my version of unavailable is men married to their jobs. In New York City, that is not hard to find. Walk down any sidewalk in any neighborhood, and you’ll trip over a driven market analyst with too many dollar signs in his eyes to look for your secrets. I once had a fling with a food blogger who muttered about bottomless brunches and cocktail pairings while in the throes of passion.



Yeah, blog boy didn’t make it anywhere near one month. Most of them don’t.

And it has been a while since someone captured my interest at all. My roommate, Nina, and I have been getting our catering company—Hot Damn Caterers—off the ground, so I could blame my newfound career, but mostly, no one has tickled my mistress sense lately.

This guy walking toward me from the other side of the bar? He’s making it hum. Loud.

What is it about him? He’s not pretty or polished, like the men I normally gravitate toward. Men who obviously care a lot about their appearance are too self-absorbed to be absorbed by me. This one looks like he yanked on some jeans, threw a backward hat over his bedhead and chugged milk straight from the carton. Which is totally out of keeping with his ruthlessly fit physique. Dude’s arms are like two torpedoes strapped to his torso, but he’s not showcasing them at all, like most gym rats would do. No wedding ring. His eyes are blue. A beautiful, soul-sucking blue. And they’re intent. Focused. Way too focused.

I stumble a little on my way to meet him halfway through the bar. Has my sixth sense grown faulty through disuse? A moment ago, his restless demeanor screamed unavailable. He’d been checking his watch, drinking an O’Doul’s—nonalcoholic beer, if I’m not mistaken—like a classic worker bee whose responsibilities await. Now? Now he looks ready to throw me over one of those muscle slab shoulders and carry me out of the bar.

Just as I begin to reverse directions and head back to Nina, Blue Eyes shakes his head at me. “No, no.” He crooks a finger at me. “Finish what you started.”

Whoa baby. That little quiver in my belly is bad news. Being ordered around is not my jam, but I find myself edging closer, wanting to hear more of that scratchy baritone.

It can’t hurt to see if he passes the mistress test.

Can it?

“I’m Ever,” I say, extending my hand. “I never start things I don’t intend to finish.”

“I want to believe that’s a promise, but it sounds more like a warning.” He takes my hand, and lightning shoots up to the curve of my neck. “Charlie.”

Slippery heat crawls up my inner thighs. He still has my hand and it’s so warm, his gaze so captivating and intelligent, I can’t look away. Or walk away. Like I really should be doing. “Want to play a game, Charlie?”

“I don’t know.” He gives my hand a tight squeeze, then lets it go with something that looks like reluctance. “Are we competing or on the same team?”

“I . . .” How is this guy tripping me up? I always have the upper hand in conversations with men, but this feels almost like . . . an even playing field. “I’ve never thought about it in those terms.”

“So you play this game a lot, huh?” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans. “Since we’re issuing warnings, you should know I don’t like to lose. And if winning means you’re not going to try to run away again, that goes triple.” Seeming to catch himself, his gaze cuts away and he clears his throat. “At least not today.”

Okay, that was definitely code for I don’t do long term, right? If his signals got any more conflicting, I’d get whiplash. The test would decipher his code, though. It was sure fire. “Are you ready?” He nods. “Where do you buy your socks?”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t hesitate even a millisecond to answer. “Amazon.”

Passed. That question is designed to weed out men in relationships and dudes who live with their moms. No man with a significant other or living in mom’s basement buys his own socks. They just don’t. “Prime member?”

“What am I, caveman? Of course.”

God, he’s tall. And warm. He’s like a furnace. It’s a physical strain to keep myself from rubbing my face on his butter-soft-looking T-shirt to heat the cold tip of my nose. Some crazy intuition says he would let me, chuckling deep in his belly the whole time.

Get a hold of yourself, woman. It’s time for question two. He’s got his arms crossed now, face all serious like he’s taking the SATs, giving me the strong urge to giggle. “What is your favorite holiday?”

Question two sounds simple, right? It’s anything but. If his answer is Christmas, he’s the commitment type. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet, he’s going to find himself and a petite brunette in matching Frosty sweaters someday, drinking nog by the fire while his triplets rip open presents. If his answer is Valentine’s Day, he’s a goddamn filthy liar and doesn’t deserve the pleasure of your time. If he says—

“New Year’s,” Charlie answers, smiling down at me. “Not New Year’s Eve. I like the day after. It’s like the whole city is sleeping. It’s never quieter as those few hours after everyone finally passes out.”

“You can walk down the middle of Broadway and—”