I perked up. “Seriously?”
“He uses her as a third-party witness.”
“That’s . . . brilliant.”
“Shh.” Reid covered my mouth with his hand. “He’ll hear.”
I nodded.
Reid didn’t move his hand. My lips liked it way too much. “We’re living together. We kind of skipped the dating part, since you rejected me and thought I was gay.” I smiled against his fingertips. “But why don’t we practice what we preach, hmm? I’ll make some popcorn, liquor you up, and we can have a date night in.”
My heart pounded.
“Nod your head if that scary look in your eyes means yes. I’m guessing if it’s a no you’ll just bite my hand.” Or I could do both just to see what he tasted like. I nodded my head.
“Good.” He rubbed his hands together. “First things first, no checking the Internet, phones, Facebook—nothing! We’re on a date. Deal?” He held out his hand.
I stared at it, reached out, then paused. “Fine, but this isn’t a real date.”
“It isn’t?” He winked, then walked off, leaving me confused and breathless, again. My body arched even then. Oh, who was I kidding? Dating Reid Emory in real life was the equivalent of winning the lottery for a girl like me.
A girl who, by all accounts, he shouldn’t even see.
But did.
Possibly more clearly than anyone in my entire life ever had.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
REID
I wasn’t nervous. Please. The nervous guy was always played by a dude who had no fashion sense, had never kissed a girl, and thought that foreplay was an actual play—in baseball.
I had killer fashion.
Had kissed tons of girls—even secured my first by the age of four from a six-year-old riding the bus to school.
And foreplay was my specialty. I like to think that some men are just gifted in that area—not to boast, but I’m one of them.
Oh, and I was a hell of a baseball player.
So that weird, shaky feeling currently residing in my stomach, slithering its way up my chest? Heartburn.
I popped two Tums.
“Hey, you okay?” Jordan asked. Her big brown eyes were makeup free—making them look even prettier—more natural. She’d given up on her hair so it was wildly cascading in every direction known to mankind, giving her a sex kitten look I wasn’t at all comfortable her sporting outside my apartment.
“Yeah.” I coughed. “Heartburn.”
“Weird. I wonder why you have heartburn after all those shots, five slices of pizza, and three glasses of red wine?”
I grinned. “Beats me.”
She rolled her eyes and grabbed the remote from my hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked calmly, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Changing the channel?” she answered without looking at me. “The movie ended an hour ago and you usually go to bed at eleven, so . . .”
“But this is date night.”
“Uh-huh, and now date night is over. I’ll tell you what.” She turned and tucked her legs beneath her. “Since you’re new at this whole dating thing, I’ll give you a free pass and let you in on a little secret.”
“I’m listening.” Okay, so I was trying to listen while my eyes zeroed in on her low-cut blouse and fringes of the black lacy bra that was peeking from beneath. Focus. Focus. Focus. Did she have pizza sauce on her breast?
“When girls come home from a date, they don’t take a hot shower and run their hands all over their body moaning and groaning and replaying every touch, every caress, every kiss.”
Can’t. Look. Away. I leaned forward. Yup, definitely pizza sauce. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Usually, they pour themselves a glass of wine, toss off their tall heels, turn on the TV, put on their sweats, and read while New Girl plays in the background.”
How was it possible she wasn’t aware she had food on her chest?
“Reid, are you listening?”
“Of course I am!” I nodded. “Wine, heels, TV, books, New Girl.” I know, neat trick, right? Just pull the details out of what they said and repeat them. Works nine times out of ten. Unless you’re Max. If you’re Max, you usually just get punched, because he tends to brag about the fact he remembered in the first place.
“What?” Jordan looked down. “What are you staring at?”
“Sauce.”
“Huh?”
“Sauce.” I pointed. “Right there.”
Jordan rolled her eyes. “I’m not falling for that trick where you point and I look down and you hit me in the face. How old are you, ten?”
“No, seriously.” I moved forward. “You have pizza sauce right here.” I swiped it with my thumb and then licked it off.
“That should be gross,” she breathed.
“I know.”
“But it was kind of sexy.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying ‘I know.’”
I smirked. “Sorry . . . oh, look, you have something right here too.”
This time she did look down. And my ten-year-old self cheered as I knocked her in the chin and said, “Gotcha.”