Flirting with Forever: A Hot Romantic Comedy(21)

“That would be great.”

He was already halfway down the stairs.

Why are you running, Dex?

I followed him down. Tension snapped off him like jolts of static electricity and he headed straight for the front door. He’d done the same thing the night the raccoon had been in the trash—left abruptly once the problem had been solved.

“What am I supposed to do about the holes in the ceiling?”

He stopped but didn’t turn around. “I can come by another time and patch them.”

I paused in the living room, making it obvious I wasn’t some psycho who’d follow him home and make a scene because he’d turned me down. “Okay. Thanks again for your help.”

“No problem. Night.”

And just like that, he left, shutting the door behind him.

I stared at the door for a long moment. His rejection did sting a little. I could admit that. But I wasn’t upset by it. Disappointed, certainly. But mostly I just didn’t understand it.

I knew men well enough to know when one wanted me—wanted me so much he’d already fucked me a dozen times in his imagination. I’d have bet anything that Dex had done just that as soon as he’d opened the door for me. His daughter wasn’t home, so the opportunity had been perfect. Hell, I was naked under this robe and I knew he’d noticed.

Tightening the tie on my robe, I turned for the kitchen. Dex St. James wanted to convince himself he wasn’t interested? That was fine. I certainly wasn’t one to chase a man.

But I wasn’t going to let him get away with the lie, either.

Not without teasing him, at least.

Oh, he could run. And I certainly wasn’t going to force the issue. That wasn’t a good look on a woman any more than it was on a man.

But I was right next door. And he was about to find out just how often his new neighbor could be in his line of sight. Teasing, tempting, flirting? I was an expert at those.

I’d been training my whole life for this.





9





NORA





I walked out of the conference room after our regular Monday meeting feeling typically frustrated. There had been a time, when I’d first started working for Glamour Gal Media, that I’d come out of these meetings energized and excited for the week ahead. A new topic to research, a new article to write, a new angle to explore—all with the backing of a large multimedia company, giving me access to an unprecedented audience.

I’d essentially stumbled into my career. I’d started as a blogger, when blogging had still been the big thing, and morphed that into an online business as a writer and influencer, specializing in topics of interest to women. As the audience for my blog, Living Your Best Life, had grown, so had the sponsorships and endorsements.

It had been a lot of fun but also a lot of work. So when an article I wrote, about giving sexy blow jobs of all things, had gone viral and caught the attention of Glamour Gal Media, I’d been thrilled. I’d thought signing on with them would be just what I needed. They could take care of things like graphic design and all the back-end technical details. I could focus on what I enjoyed—research, interviews, and pulling it all together for a fun, informative read.

While they did take care of the aspects of the business that I’d wanted to outsource, they’d also taken control of the content of Living Your Best Life. I’d been under the impression that I’d still have creative control.

I’d been wrong.

I didn’t have control of anything. Not even the final product that went under my byline.

But it wasn’t all bad. I went back to my office and took a seat at my desk. I could work from home as much as I wanted. I really could focus on the things I enjoyed—the research, the interviews, the writing. They paid me very well. My shoe collection, not to mention my new house, were testaments to that. My career afforded me a life I enjoyed living.

I just had to write yet another article about sex.

After the dozens I’d already written.

With a sigh, I crossed my legs at the ankles and opened my laptop. April wanted my next piece to be about sex in public. Parked car, restroom, that sort of thing. I’d had to hold back from rolling my eyes at her bathroom suggestion. Sex in a public restroom? Gross. No thank you.

But I knew she was right. People would love reading about it. Even people who’d never in a million years have sex in a place where there was a high risk of being caught.

Especially people who’d never have sex in a place with a high risk of being caught.

I opened a new document and jotted down a few notes. Sometimes I felt like I was writing fiction more often than not. How was I supposed to research this? Wander down to Pioneer Square and do person-on-the-street interviews? Ask random passersby about their experiences having sex in risky places?

I couldn’t drum up much excitement about the idea. Maybe I’d just ask my besties. It wasn’t like April wouldn’t make sure the article was exaggerated and embellished before it was published anyway.

“Hey,” Tala poked her head in my door.

“Morning.”

Tala Reyes was about my age and all five feet of her was nothing but gorgeous curves. She had thick black hair, big dark eyes, and excellent taste in fashion. She’d started with Glamour Gal shortly after me and worked in the editing department.