I’m standing here with my chest heaving and the laptop clenched to my stomach when I realize I’m in front of Jake, in my pink lace bra.
His eyes travel from my face to my décolletage and skim over the swell of my breasts, making his chocolate eyes turn black before they pop back up with a smile. “You do know, clothing isn’t optional at Shooter’s, right? I believe you’re required to wear a shirt.”
I scrunch my nose at him. “Not funny. And what were you thinking, snooping on my computer?”
“The tab was still up. I must have accidentally clicked on it.”
“Accidentally, my ass.”
He’s making a face like a boy who was caught with a cookie, but I can’t prove he put his hand in the jar. I squint at him as I march my shirtless self—and my laptop—back into my room, slamming my door behind me.
As I fall against it, my heart races, and my breasts feel tender beneath my bra. My skin is sensitive, the way it is when I’m turned on. It’s weird because nothing happened. All Jake did was run his eyes over my body, but damn, I shiver in a way that’s foreign yet familiar.
I focus my energy on getting dressed. With a black crewneck top and jeans, I head to the bathroom and do my makeup. I might not get dolled up often, but I know how to do a perfect cat eye when necessary. I walk out of my bedroom, and he doesn’t seem impressed with my cleaned-up look.
Jake reaches for my bun and the stray hair that’s sticking up. “You’re not going to do anything with this?”
I glare at him. “You’re lucky you’re getting me out of the house.”
“You look like you put it up in a bun and then had crazy sex. That, or you masturbated.” He eyes me playfully. “It’s wild and unkempt. I’m totally for the sex-crazed look. I just wanted to know if you were okay with it.”
My brows lift at his assumption. I mean, he’s one hundred percent right that I got myself off while watching porn earlier today, but that’s beside the point.
With a slight huff, I turn back to my bedroom, remove my bun, and brush my hair out. It’s still bumpy, but it looks presentable.
As I come out, I point at him and declare, “No comments. This is how I’m leaving the house, and that’s final. Girls won’t think we’re on a date, so you’ll still get hit on, I’m sure of it.”
He grins as he smooths out his shirt. “Not concerned. Now, let’s go.”
Since Shooter’s is nearby, we decide to walk, taking in the warm autumn night. I have to keep up with Jake as he strolls down the street. His long legs move as if he were floating, and I quicken my feet to meet his pace.
We get to the bar, and it’s moderately crowded—typical for a Monday night. There are sporting events on the televisions, including a pregame special for the Bears.
Jake grabs a stool at the bar and holds one out for me while calling over to the bartender. He orders a stout for himself and a Manhattan with three cherries for me.
I tilt my head, surprised.
“Manhattans are the superior drink.” He grins.
I nod, impressed he remembered.
The bartender places the drinks down. I instantly reach for a cherry, swirling it around in my mouth, tasting the alcohol before popping it off the stem.
“You need to write that in one of your books,” Jake says, taking a swig of his beer. “That thing you do with your tongue around that cherry.”
“You’re such a guy.”
“Trust me, it’s a good thing.”
“Want to see something ridiculous, yet I’ve heard, it’s a huge turn-on?” I don’t wait for him to answer as I place the stem back in my mouth and fold it with my tongue. Next, with my mouth closed, I bite on the stem and twist the rest with my tongue until it forms a knot. As I pinch the end and move it from my mouth, I explain to him, “Apparently, if you can tie a cherry stem with your mouth, you’re a good kisser.”
He nods.
“And blow jobs,” I add.
Jake nearly chokes on his beer.
“Sexy?” I ask, thinking the entire thing is silly.
He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah. Definitely write that next time you’re showing how the characters develop their attraction for one another. The hate each other and then fall in love thing is good, but seduction by cherry stem is straight to the point.”
It takes me a few minutes to catch on to what he’s talking about. “Wait. Did you read my book I gave you?”
“Of course I did. I can’t live next door to a famous author and not read her work.”
“You read it?”
“I finished it.”
I look down, completely taken aback that he not only opened the book, but he also read it to the end. Here I thought, he was going to use it as a coaster or doorstop.
He leans forward and grabs my attention with his dark eyes, willing me to look at him. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I thought?”
I lift a shoulder. “Only if you want to share. Reading is a selective and personal endeavor.”
“I loved it.”
I look up with slightly narrowed eyes, searching his for any sign that he’s bullshitting me. His gaze is steady, and his shoulders are square. His expression doesn’t give any clue that he’s lying, and all I see is conviction.
“Thanks,” I state quietly.
“Your prose was fantastic. I loved how the heroine was feisty yet vulnerable. Her backstory was completely believable, as was the male narrative. I had worried you were going to paint all men as macho Neanderthals who tossed women onto beds and dominated them.”
I smile. “Well, I do have a few of those. Fire and Gold just happens to have a hero who is sensitive yet can be the protector the heroine needs.”
“It was great. And the scene at the end, where the ex-husband comes to take her, how did you know the best place to bury a body?”
Laughing, I cover my mouth with my hand and shake my head. “You can thank Google for that.”
Turning on my stool, I take a look around the establishment. It’s a modern bar with black leather backed booths and a swanky dance floor with pool tables off to the side. To me, it’s exactly the kind of place I would write about, where my hero would take a date if they were coworkers at a firm, coming out for happy hour. I’d have them place a bet on who could go home with someone and get laid first. Of course, they’d leave with one another.
“Is this where you bring your dates?” I ask as I spot a couple chatting ever so closely at the end of the bar.
“No.”
“Too close to home?”
“Kind of. I love the food, and the vibe is chill. I come here with friends.”
I nod in understanding. “So, where do you take your dates?”
“Cellar Door, Marie-Jeanne, Good Measure—”
“No Alinea or Smyth?” I ask, throwing in the names of Michelin-starred restaurants in our city. What he named were anything but.
He shakes his head. “I like to go to trendy dive bars and cool hangout-type eats.” I must look confused, so he turns to me fully, placing his arm behind my chair and explaining, “Say I wanted to impress a girl. If I brought her to Smyth, she’d only like it because it was ritzy and flashy. She’d assume I had money and would take her to places like that all the time. I don’t want a woman to date me just because of the places I’ll take her. Plus, I enjoy hanging out in large groups—double and triple dates. I can’t expect my friends to afford the same places I can.”