His eyes darken with a dirty playfulness. “You can come up my stairwell anytime, kitten.”
“I’m being serious.”
“Me too.”
“Derek.”
“Fine. You can come up the stairs, but no fucking.”
“No fucking and no foreplay,” I add, though I’m pretty sure the way he touched my neck was melt-my-undies-off foreplay.
“That leaves . . . kissing?” he asks.
A smile teases at my lips. “Well, we do need to practice.”
“We absolutely need to practice.”
“The contest is important for my potential promotion,” I add.
“And I can’t let you kiss anyone else.”
“I don’t want to kiss anyone else.”
“I don’t either.” He grabs his wine and downs the rest of the glass. “So we’ll live together, not fuck, not engage in foreplay, just kiss.”
Too bad he just turned my legs to jelly with one seductive touch. But I do my best to keep my eyes on the prize. “Those are the rules. No mercy. No sympathy. We follow them, plain and simple.”
I extend a hand to shake, and he takes mine in his, yanking me close, but not touching. I hear myself whimper, begging for him to cop a feel.
“We can do this. We can definitely make this work. Also, thank you.” His tone is tender and earnest, and the gratitude in it tugs on my heart. “I’ve been dying at Jodie’s home, and I can’t wait to spread out and sleep on a proper mattress.”
I smile, glad I can help. “And you will love it.”
Our hands are still joined. We’re still shaking and not letting go. He grips my hand tighter, his gaze straying to my lips. “But maybe we should enter the contest in the sweet category instead of the most passionate one.”
“I can do sweet.”
He drops my hand, cups my cheeks, tilts my head back, and dusts his soft, enticing lips across mine.
It’s the polar opposite of yesterday’s kiss. A soft, sweet whisper of a kiss. A chaste kiss. A kiss fit for a public square, a library, a dinner out. A kiss you can take home to mama.
But there’s nothing chaste about my body’s reaction.
Nothing sweet about the fire in my belly and the heat pulsing madly between my legs.
When he lets go, I blink, dazed. “Let me show you to your room.”
He gestures toward the kitchen doorway, letting me walk ahead of him. I make my way to the staircase, and when I take the first step, he calls out, “Perri?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”
I turn around, cataloging the naughty glint in his eyes. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
13
Derek
I wake up feeling like Mark Zuckerberg.
At least, I bet that dude wakes up like the sun is shining for him.
Billionaires must feel fantastic in the morning, stretching their arms, enjoying their downy-ass pillows and fluffy-as-a-feather ten-thousand-thread-count sheets.
Or wait—do they sleep on greenbacks? Roll around on top of large bills all night?
Regardless, I’m sure they’re comfortable at night, and I bet they feel rested as a hairy armadillo. My niece told me those little roly-polies sleep twenty hours a day, so they’re another creature who are surely some well-rested mo-fos.
I wake feeling something else too. An early riser. No surprise, there’s my clockwork morning wood.
But it’s a brand-new day, because none of my sister’s kids jump on me on the couch.
Halle-privacy-please-lujah.
With no worries about bumping into little ones, I swing my feet to the floor and walk straight to my own bathroom, my dick pointing the way.
I enjoy a long, hot shower and take care of business.
One thing remains the same though. My, ahem, inspiration.
Yup, I’m still using the same image. Red hair, pouty lips, tight body, and a uniform. There is something insanely sexy about a woman in a uniform. Man, I’d like to see Perri stroll through the door tonight all in blue, aviator shades on, cuffs at the ready.
For me to use on her.
She’d look spectacular shackled to my bedposts.
And there we go. Good morning to me.
By the time I’m out of the shower, I’m fresh and clean, ready to tackle the day.
I get dressed and head downstairs so I can say hello to my new housemate, but I find an empty kitchen.
My shoulders sag a little. I wave a hand, dismissing the thought that maybe I was looking forward to seeing her. I’ll see her tonight.
I spot a chalkboard perched on the counter next to the fridge.
It’s a cute little thing, resting on an easel, with an assortment of chalk in pastel shades resting on the ledge beneath it. She's written a note in lavender chalk.
Does she wear lavender lace lingerie too?
Hmm. Where is the laundry room? She did say she was washing her clothes last night.
Wait.
I’m not that big a pervert, or a Peeping Tom. I’m not going to check out her dirty—or clean—laundry.
Besides, a woman like her definitely wears sexy underthings.
I read her note.
There are eggs in the fridge. There’s coffee in the coffeepot and bread on the counter. If you're gluten-free, you’re shit out of luck. Otherwise, feel free to enjoy anything in the fridge. I’ll see you later at the house, I suppose. Or not. :)
Well, that’s as no mercy, no sympathy as you can get in a roomie. I nod, approving of her message. I like her style.
I whip up some eggs, make some toast, brew some coffee, and open the Stephen King novel I’ve been reading.
I’m not due at work for an hour, so when I’m done eating my breakfast in the company of a carny at a North Carolina amusement park in the ’70s—Joyland is scary as fuck, and I love it—I grab my shades and the key that Perri gave me last night, and I walk the mile to my sister’s house. Her kids are up, and it’s a wild rumpus in the house. I give all the children smooches, ruffling hair and scooping them up in airplanes as they demand. I say hi to Jodie and tell her I’ll take Molly to her summer camp.
Jodie’s brown eyes dance with happiness as she gathers ingredients to bring to the industrial kitchen where she does her baking. “Stop. Just stop.”
“You don’t want me to take her?” I ask, surprised.
She makes a sound like a horse shaking her head, and Molly laughs from her spot at the table where she’s drinking juice and drawing a tortoise.
“I do, I do, I do,” Jodie says. “I just can’t believe you’re a literal angel.”
I scoff. “Trust me, I’m no angel.”
“Are you sure?” Jodie asks through narrowed eyes. “Because taking this little monkey to camp is saving my day.”
“I can climb like a monkey. And I can talk like a monkey,” Molly says, busting out her best monkey imitation.
I offer a hand to high-five my niece. “Molly Monkey, you deserve a banana.”
The little blondie makes an agreeing sound, monkey-style.
I turn back to Jodie. “It’s the least I can do. You have lots of baking on the agenda, and the bread isn’t gonna make itself, is it?”
“I hope not. Self-making bread would put me out of business.”
Molly tugs on my pants, hooting. “I’m an owl now, Uncle Derek.”
I hoot back at her. “Yes, you are. I’m still waiting for you to master the peacock though.”
“The peacock is hard to do,” Molly says, frowning. “But I bet the face-painting lady can do it. She makes funny animal sounds.”
My grin spreads of its own accord. I can’t wait to hear the sounds she makes. When she’s imitating ducks and cows and sheep, of course. “Does she now?”
My niece nods then points at me. “And she’s better than you.”
My jaw drops. “Take that back. Take that blasphemy back.”
Jodie nudges me. “Guess you need to work on your animal sounds. Also, how is the new roomie?”
Last night when I stopped by to grab my bag, I told Jodie the basic details—I’d found a place a mile away and was moving. “She’s the animal-sound lady.”
Jodie arches a brow. “The pretty cop?”
I tap my nose. “Bingo.”
She drops her voice to a whisper. “The one you spent a little time with at the market?”
Granted, she doesn’t know the finer details, but I did let on that I might have hung out with the officer. “She’s the one.”
“And you’re living with her now?”
“Indeed. I rented a room from her.”
She yanks on my shirt and tugs me into the hallway. “Derek.”
“What?”
“You’re renting a room from the woman you’re into?”
I bristle at her word choice. “I’m not into her. We were messing around. More like a Tinder thing.” Though nothing about what I have with Perri feels like an online hookup. I know more about her from our brief encounters than someone I’d go home with from an app. I know she relies on her brother, she’s close with her family, and she values her community. I know she cares deeply about her job, and also about the people in this town. She’s sarcastic and sharp, and I’ve learned she’s creative—with her mailbox and her curlicue chalk drawings.
Most of all, I know she has a strong sense of right and wrong, along with a soft heart and a fast mouth.
“And now you’re living with her?”
“Renting a room,” I correct, like the word choice is critical.
“Be careful.”
“Why?”
Jodie taps my sternum. “The last time you lived with a woman she broke your heart.”
I wave off her concerns. “Correction—the last time I was in a relationship, the woman turned out to be a lying, cheating you-know-what.”
“And she broke your heart.”
I wince, shaking my head. “Please.”
“Derek,” she says softly. “You had feelings for Katie. You cared about her.”