“’Kay. Be right there.” He waits for her to close the door and then he speaks. “Thank you for taking me to school, but it seems class needs to be dismissed.” He takes a step backwards, that smile of his in full effect. “Make sure you watch your step when you leave, I hear it’s really easy to break a heel . . . G’day.”
“Oh my god, you’re such an ass!” I grit out and against all my rational instincts, I throw my shoes at him. One in quick succession after the other.
What makes me even more pissed off is that he laughs as he catches them.
And before I say a word, he winks with a grin I’d love to knock off that gorgeous face of his, and then turns on his heel and heads down the hall—with my shoes in hand.
I blow out a sigh as I watch him, realizing that throwing the shoes was an impulse I should have resisted. Now I’m stuck having to walk out to my car barefoot in the Los Angeles heat and I sure as hell know that as much as those are my favorite shoes, I refuse to give Zane the satisfaction of asking for them back.
Instead I stare at his office door for a few moments. Mad at myself for acting without thinking. Even more mad at him for making me act that way.
And then I sigh knowing I righted no wrongs today—by telling him off or by throwing my shoes—but damn did it feel good to let him know what I thought.
I KNOW, I KNOW. YOU’RE thinking I’m a prick.
Meh. Maybe I come off like a manwhore every so often. Maybe I mess up what I’m supposed to say because I’m thinking with the wrong appendage at times. And maybe I’m just like every other man out there but you’re seeing it firsthand because you’re in my head.
We all talk like this. Correction. We all think like this. It’s man code. Everything we do is part of some invisible—or in this instance, real—contest. A serious case of needing to one-up each other just to prove who has the biggest dick. And in case you wondered, I win. Always. But then again does size really matter? (Spoiler alert: yes, it does.) Anyway, think what you want about me but I’m not a bad guy. I like women. I like women a lot. And I like a lot of women. Is that a crime?
And there’s one in particular I haven’t been able to get out of my head for the past few days and fuck if I know what to do about her.
She’s the one right there. Across the street in the front yard of that tan single story house with the Explorer in the driveway. The one with chocolate-colored hair piled on top of her head, legs for fucking days, and a rack that I’d love to hang my . . . er, coat on.
C’mon, don’t roll your eyes. That was clever. Crass, but clever. I told you, man-code.
Hell yes she’s easy on the eyes . . . but it’s her hellfire attitude I can’t get out of my head.
I’ve never had a woman speak to me like that before. Women act compliant around me. They want to please me and gain my favor. She sure as shit didn’t.
If she’s got a temper like that, I can only imagine how passionate she is in other areas.
Yes, I see you rolling your eyes. But you’ll get over it once I turn on my charm. Let’s hope she will too.
Here’s where my story starts . . . wish me luck in figuring her out because . . . let’s face it. I’m a guy, we need all the help we can get.
I LOOK DOWN AT THE gas and electric bill in my hands with the big red ‘late’ marked across the top.
“Who are you Harlow Nicks?” I mutter, pissed that I’m here. That I’m sitting across the street watching her play with a dog like I’m some stalker.
But fuck if I can’t stop thinking about this woman.
She’s a model. Or rather, has modeled. A quick Google search and the flood of images that surfaced told me that much. Lingerie just might be my weakness and damn, if she doesn’t look good modeling it.
Is that why I’m here? To get a second look at what I missed behind her mask of fury the first time? Because it sure as shit isn’t to return the late bill she accidentally left in my office, folded with her printed email with information about an interview in an office just down the hall from mine.
“What are you doing, Phillips?” I grumble as I exit my SUV and walk across the street.
But I know damn well what I’m doing or else I wouldn’t be carrying this stupid box with me.
Her back is to me when I approach and her laughter floats up as she falls to the ground wrestling with a multicolored mutt. Laughter. Now that’s something I haven’t heard from her yet.
“So, you do like dogs?” I say.
She freezes instantly at the sound of my voice at the same time the dog takes notice of me. Its lopsided ears perk up and brindle colored tail starts thumping as I look down at Harlow, flat on her back and looking up at me.
Bending over, I pet her dog out of reflex, but my eyes stay fixed on the hazel ones looking up at me.
“God. Go away.”