Hey there, this has been the best week ever and I’m not just saying that because of your dick.
Yeah, maybe not those.
I’ll need to workshop this confession like it’s a scene in my TV show. But as I cross the park, I hit pause in my scare myself into opening up challenge when my gaze catches on a wicker basket on the table. Then the red checked tablecloth underneath it. And, at last, I settle on the man.
Sure, I knew we were having a picnic, but I didn’t expect him to have an actual picnic basket. It’s such an incongruous image—the big, burly man reaching into the old-fashioned basket.
And it gives me butterflies.
How will he react when I tell him I like him? I think he might like me too, but he was so clear about the week limit. But that’s why I’m going to take my own challenge.
Toting a pink pie box and a belly full of nerves, I cross the final stretch of spongy grass, then reach him. After I set down the pie box, I point, flabbergasted, at the spread. “You have a basket.”
“Don’t tell a soul,” he says gruffly as he takes out a container of olives, putting them next to some Marcona almonds. They’re keeping company with hummus, carrots, and blueberries. My mouth waters.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I say, then I lift my chin in a very obvious request for a kiss.
I need a kiss for courage.
He hauls me in for a hot, searing one while his hand grips the small of my back. He devours my mouth. This is not a picnic kiss. It’s nightclub devastation. We’re not a red-and-white-checked-tablecloth kind of couple. We are satin sheets and blindfolds.
When we separate, I’m dizzy. Then, my pulse soars when he slides a hand down my back again, stopping at my ass, spreading his hand across it. He squeezes, harder than he has before.
Wild thoughts race through my mind.
New ideas.
New fantasies.
Ones that kick things up another notch.
When I take you out in public, I get a thrill that I’m the only one who knows the private side of you.
Yes, I know what I want in bed tonight. Something that makes me even more vulnerable.
“I like the basket,” I say in a low and sensual voice, but I’m not just talking about the accouterment. I’m talking about him. I cover his hand on my ass with mine, pressing his palm more firmly against my flesh.
His eyes glimmer. “I can tell,” he says, and the double meaning isn’t lost on him. Then he grabs me roughly.
I gasp.
When he lets go, he kisses me once more. This one is sweet. Like icing. Maybe now is the time to say: this is more than fun and games for me.
He tips his forehead to the table. “I bought the basket for you today. As part of our practice,” he says.
He bought a picnic basket.
For me.
He shopped for vegan food.
For me.
I can’t ignore the happy bubbles floating up through my bloodstream any longer.
I made a promise to be real tonight, and it terrifies me. But that’s the point. “Gabe,” I say tentatively as someone in the volleyball game shouts, Nice one.
“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks.
I’m shaking with nerves, but I’ve gone on stage and performed for thousands. I can confess how I feel to one man.
I gulp, then think, Screw the nerves. “I’m having such a great time with you, and I just wanted to let you know—”
“Duck!” someone shouts.
I flinch at the warning, spin around for the shouter when I see a red frisbee’s flying right at Gabe’s head, like a missile.
“Gabe!” I cry out, but he’s already blocking, shoving his body in front of me, and sticking out his right arm.
Then boom.
He catches the frisbee before it whacks his head.
My pulse is racing when a guy—maybe twenty—stops short, panting. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
Gabe tilts his head, studies the guy with dark, angry eyes. Ohhhh. Is he going to rip this guy to pieces like he did the redhead at the bar?
“You almost hit my woman,” he warns in a low voice.
My woman.
Gawd. Those words heat me up. Gabe doesn’t even care that the frisbee was heading for him. He’s bothered that I might have been collateral damage.
The guy turns to me, his eyes guilty. “I’m really sorry. I was just playing a game.”
He sounds so earnest, so devastated.
“I’m fine. We’re fine,” I say.
Then Gabe breathes out like he’s letting go of the irritation. “Yeah, just be more careful,” Gabe says, and he’s no longer the man about to rip off heads. He knows how to handle situations. He knows when to issue a warning and when to go caveman.
As the guy trots off with the frisbee, Gabe turns to me, concern etched in his irises. “You okay, sweetheart?”
My heart is sprinting. “I’m great,” I say.
He runs a hand gently down my hair. “You sure?”
“I am,” I say, resolute.
“Good,” he says, then kisses my forehead before sitting down. I join him. “You were saying something?” he prompts.
I’m so frothy and turned on I don’t remember what had been on the tip of my tongue. I need a moment to reset. “Just…this is nice. This is all really nice,” I say, gesturing to the picnic.
“Good. You deserve nice things,” he says.
Nice things like him?
Deliberately, I recall the purpose of our deal. We’re here to practice for the party. Maybe it’s best if I zoom in on that while I clear my head of that uptick in desire from seconds ago. I pluck a blueberry from the carton and pop it in my mouth. “And we’re supposed to be a nice girl and boy tomorrow night,” I say.
“I don’t think the cop scene last night was very good practice.”
I laugh. “Not one bit…So, let’s pretend Aunt Tilly just asked how we met again.”
But Gabe doesn’t take the bait. He eats a few olives with a thoughtful frown. “Actually, I don’t want to practice for the party right now.”
I sit up straighter. “Oh. Why?” My radar beeps in a gentle warning.
“About last night…”
Does he regret the role play? I ask warily, “What about it?”
“It was incredible—like I told you then. Like I told you again this morning.” He’s emphatic and reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “And I keep thinking about why. Why I liked it so much. Besides the obvious.”
“That it was hot?” I ask.
“Yes. Besides that,” he says, his tone still serious. “And I started thinking about that first night we went out.” He draws what sounds like a steadying breath. “I was planning to leave you when we got to your house.”
I flinch. Maybe it’s a good thing I haven’t told him my feelings. “You were?”
“I was trying to exit gracefully,” he admits, and I’m not sure I like where this is going. “I was sure if you knew I liked it rough, you’d throw a shoe at me.”
My worry slinks away, replaced only by concern. I wish he hadn’t felt that way, even for a brief while. “Why would you think that?”
He swallows and glances away like maybe he’s embarrassed. “My ex did,” he mutters. “And I thought if you knew what I wanted to do to you, that you might chuck your helmet and scooter at me.”