That’s different.
Plus . . . when she doesn’t tell me not to call her sweet cheeks, I know something’s really different. What is she up to?
“It was fine. Meetings and all that crap. Had lunch with my dad, who’s currently staying at my place with my mom while I watch Emory and Knox’s apartment.”
“Do you have plants that need to be watered and moved as well?”
“No, I’m not insane.”
“Did you know she names them too?”
“Oh yes, you should see the binder that has a picture of each plant, its name, and caring instructions. I think Knox needs to be careful with who he’s having a baby with.”
“Well, there’s no turning back now,” I say. “He already planted his seed.” She rolls her eyes. “Get it, it’s a play on the whole plant thing.”
“Yeah.” She takes a big gulp of wine. “I get it.” She looks at the oven. “Dinner ready?”
“Ten minutes. We can sit on the couch until it’s ready.” I guide her with my hand on the small of her back to the living room, and I’m surprised when she doesn’t move away. What the hell has gotten into her tonight? Smiling, not super critical within thirty seconds, allowing me to touch her without a nipple twist in sight. Who is this Dottie?
We both take a seat and face each other, both of us propping a leg up on the couch.
I observe her, the sleek line of her neck, the smooth sheen of her raven-black hair, her impossibly long eyelashes. She’s an absolute bombshell and must have men propositioning her all the time. It does beg the question why she’s here. I might be a catch—who clearly loves puns—but Dottie Domico could have anyone. Anyone. Yet, she’s alone. I’ve always had a vague picture in my head about who I’d want as my forever, but she’s never resembled the stunning woman in front of me. So polished. Refined. Fiercely independent. Self-sufficient, without the need for anyone by her side. I want someone who wants and needs me in her life. And yet, she’s someone I can’t seem to stop thinking about.
“Tell me about college.”
“What about it?” she asks.
“Why didn’t you ever come say hi to me? Emory was dating Knox, and you two are best friends. We could be married by now.”
“Well”—she draws her finger over the back of the couch—“it was hard getting close to you in college because you were always surrounded by groupies.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“At baseball parties you were.”
“Because that’s where they all congregated. But I’m sure you saw me on campus, right? You could have set up a double date with Knox and Emory.”
“Who’s to say I would have wanted a double date in the first place? Yeah, I knew you in college, but you were also a year younger, and I had better things to do than try to please a younger man.”
I laugh, the sound heavy in my chest. “You were scared.”
“I wasn’t interested.”
“What did I say about lying to me?” I stare at her, challenging her statement. “Tell me the truth, did you like me in college?”
“I didn’t know you in college.” She sips her wine carefully, keeping her gaze on me.
“Then let me rephrase. Did you think I was hot?”
She looks away, and there’s my answer.
“I think you know the answer to that.” She twists a finger in her hair.
“I want to hear it from your lips.”
For a second, I see a change in demeanor, as if she really has to consider what she’s about to say to me. It isn’t an easy answer or confession, something that almost looks like it pains her to admit.
But despite the pain and reluctance I see in her eyes, she swallows hard, as if telling herself “here we go” and says, “I saw you for the first time in the quad. You were talking to some of the other guys on the team. Your ass was the first thing I saw, and I had a hard time forgetting about it.”
Well, well, well, would you look at that?
I wasn’t expecting such an easy admission. Given our night in the elevator followed by the race around my apartment and her pure discomfort this morning, I was looking forward to some repartee this evening, but it seems I won’t be getting that.
What is it that’s so different tonight? It’s like something’s flipped a switch.
I don’t want to look too much into it right now, because I have her opening up, but I am a man who notes these things.
“When you say hard time forgetting about it, what does that mean exactly? How long have you been thinking about my ass?”
She looks away and downs the rest of her drink. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s trying to get drunk to make it through this night.
After smacking her lips, she says, “I’ve thought about your ass ever since college. Ever since I laid eyes on it.” No teasing tone, her eyes are dead set on mine, and not even the slightest twitch in her lips. “I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember.” She leans forward, the neckline of her dress falling forward, giving me a perfect view down the top. I remember those tits, still as voluptuous as last night. Her hand falls to my thigh and she says, “I’m tired of playing this cat and mouse game, Jason.”
Eh, what’s happening right now?
She scoots even closer, setting her empty wineglass on the table, her body tipping toward me. “I’m tired of denying what I feel for you.” Her hand slides up my thigh, right to my hip.
Hey-o, watch it there, lady.
“Let’s drop the act.”
I nervously laugh. “What act?”
“This chase. This repartee. Let’s just give in to what we want . . . each other.”
Her other hand falls to my chest and then glides up my neck to my jaw as she starts to climb on top of my lap. My body is saying yes, my mind is saying what the fuck is happening right now just as the oven timer goes off.
Not even giving it a second thought, I fly off the couch, knocking her on her ass, and sprint toward the kitchen.
Her thump on the floor seems to echo through the apartment as I strap on oven mitts and pull the perfectly cooked enchiladas out of the oven. Slightly browned on the top with bubbling cheese. My mouth waters at that sight, causing me to temporarily forget about the woman I just knocked to the floor. That’s until I see her hobbling toward me, her hand on her hip.
Trying to make the most of it, I say, “Just got the rug. Was it plush?”
Her eyes narrow. “No.”
“Hmm, I knew I should have gotten that extra cushion mat.”
She rubs her side and steps into the kitchen, right next to me, her proximity concerning.
The anger from dropping her to the floor subsides as she says, “You know, those oven mitts look really sexy on you.”
“These old things?” I show off the stained and food-coated mitts right before I cup my pecs and give them a good squeeze. “Honk, honk,” I add nervously, using my muscular man breasts as sound-making devices.
Her brow lifts, but she doesn’t let my awkwardness interfere with her . . . whatever she’s doing right now. She runs her hand up my chest, playing with the divot in the middle—man cleavage—and leaves but only a few inches between us.