He then notices the bag just about spilling out from under my arm. “You need some help with that?” he asks before taking it from me.
Wow, this is going well. It’s one of those perfect meet-cutes, right?
Except for the general disarray in my apartment. I’ve been working hard on that little book my editor won’t buy, which means pretty much everything else in the world has fallen by the wayside. Including picking up my dirty laundry from the general vicinity of the hamper and tossing out empty takeout containers.
Mom always said sloppiness would be the death of me. I doubt she had this exact situation in mind though.
Also, a bag bulging with liquor bottles isn’t usually a standard meet-cute accessory.
“You know what? I think I’m okay.” Once I have the front door unlocked, I spin in place and take the bag back. “But thank you.”
He takes this mini rejection well, turning his attention to the contents of the bag. There go my cheeks, flushing hotter than ever.
“Having a party?” he asks, still good-natured.
“Sure am. A party of one.” I somehow manage to smile in the face of my disappointment.
He doesn’t need to know the sordid details of my depressing life. Though I guess when a person buys this much liquor all at once and admits they’re the only one drinking it, the message comes through.
“Well, I’m Matt. It’s a shame it took this long for us to introduce ourselves.” He thrusts out his hand for a shake. “But I’m glad we finally had the chance.”
“Me too. And I’m Kitty.” It’s not easy to keep from giggling when those eyes of his are locked on mine, and my hand is in his much larger, much stronger one.
He’s going to have a truly wonderful idea of me once this is all over, isn’t he? It’ll be another year before he dares to talk to me again.
Again, he eyes the liquor. “You can’t drink that all alone, you know.”
“No?”
“No. You’ll die. And in a few days, you’ll start to stink. And I’ll have to go in with the police to identify your body, and is that how you want me to remember you? In your bed?”
Gulp. Yes, in fact, I would like him to remember me in bed. Preferably above me with the muscles of his shoulders flexing and bunching as he holds himself up. Or when he reaches down to stroke my cheek, to kiss me for the thousandth time.
“Naked?” I blurt out.
His eyes go wide. “Pardon?”
“Would I be naked in this scenario?”
“Uh, I think the bigger problem here is you being dead. Naked or otherwise.”
“I’ll have to remember to keep my clothes on then.”
He’s smiling again, though maybe it’s because he feels sorry for me and wonders if it’s safe for me to live alone.
“Or you could not drink too much at once. Seriously, I’d hate to have to identify your body, no matter how much you’ve got on.”
I can’t decide if he’s making fun of me, flirting with me, being neighborly, or feeling legitimately concerned that I might be the sort of person who’d drink all this alcohol at once.
“Thanks. I won’t,” I mutter, reaching behind me to turn the knob and backing up just far enough to get into the apartment so he won’t see anything that might embarrass me. I’ve embarrassed myself enough. “See ya.”
I then lean against the closed door with a sigh. I’m such an idiot. He was bound to find out sometime.
That’s enough of that for today anyway. I have much bigger fish to fry than the matter of the hottie from across the hall. Such as how I’m supposed to write a really filthy, on-trend romance.
Which means taking the liquor to the kitchen and deciding who to start the party with. “Will it be you, Mr. Jack Daniel’s?” I ask, tapping the top of the bottle with my nails. “Or you, Mr. Stoli? Ooh, Mr. Patrón. We haven’t gotten together in far too long.”
Tequila it is.
After a single shot, I get the heck out of my fancy work clothes and into my regular work clothes—a T-shirt, plaid pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers. After a second shot, I’m feeling slightly better about this business of dirty-writing. It can’t be that hard, can it? I’ve written best-sellers, for Pete’s sake. I can do this.
So, I go to my office, which would be the bedroom just off the living room if I had a roommate. The apartment isn’t anywhere near huge, but it’s perfect for me—and it’s close enough to Central Park that I can take a walk there when I’m good and stuck in my work.
I’m not stuck now, sitting behind my laptop and cracking my knuckles. Mind over matter. It’s all about attitude. I’ll start with a sexy scene to get the juices flowing … so to speak.
Funny thing, but the notion of dirty sex is easier to manage so soon after talking with Matt. Maybe not so funny. Maybe I need to do more talking with him if the mere sight of his gorgeous face and body is enough to get me thinking along these lines.
He caressed the petals of her silky folds.
I type roughly half a page into the scene before he moves on top of her, sinking his …
“Oh no,” I groan, rolling my eyes at myself. Missionary again.
I must not have drunk enough.
I take the laptop to the kitchen and pour another shot. There’s gotta be a way to do this that’ll be better for my liver, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And I’m desperate.
By the time I take the fourth shot, I’m ready to go again. Only here’s the problem—well, two problems.
For one thing, I just drank four shots, and they’re starting to hit me.
For the other thing, missionary sex is just where my mind goes. Have I honestly only ever had sex in that one single position? I think back with a frown. Twenty-five years old, and I can only remember doing it that way—and once when we were both on our sides. So, two positions.
No, three! I hold up a fist in triumph.
There was that one time in college where he was behind me. Yeah, that’s something to be proud of.
What I don’t need is alcohol. What I need is research.
Short of having a guy handcuffed to my bed, there’s not much I can do besides ask the closest man in the vicinity. Which means taking one more shot for courage then darting across the hall before I can talk myself out of it.
My knock inspires a fresh round of frantic barking, and I cringe in preparation for a golden retriever attack. Except Phoebe doesn’t come charging when the door opens. In fact, her barking and scratching at the door are quickly replaced by a softer whining noise.
When the door opens, my jaw hits the floor. At least, that’s how it feels. Mr. Matt is now shirtless, a little out of breath, and just a bit sweaty, like he was in the middle of a workout. It takes real effort on my part not to think about the sort of workout I’d like to give him, especially when my eyes are naturally led down, down his defined chest and abs to the delicious, sharp V of muscle leading into his pants.
Hot. Damn.
If he notices my ogling, he has the decency not to call me on it. “Sorry it took me a minute to answer.” He grins. “I had to put Phoebe in her kennel, so she wouldn’t jump on you. What’s up?”