The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(20)

But then warm hands burn through my jacket once more, and he’s lifting me by my waist, placing me on the passenger seat. Then he leans over, head nearly in my lap and my drunk mind going places it can not even think about being before he clicks the seatbelt in place. Then, standing straight, one hand runs down the length of the belt to adjust it, grazing my body the whole way and, goddammit, if my entire body doesn’t shiver in response.

The jerk’s lips quirk up just a hair before he steps back and slams the truck door, and drives me to my apartment.





Ten





-Luke-





When we get to Cassie’s apartment and park, she’s sobered a bit, and now her eyes have an adorably tired look as I open the passenger door and help her out. My hands hold her in place as she steadies on her heels, and it feels right. Holding her.

“Come on, sweetheart. Where’s the entrance?” She points in the direction, and I twine her fingers with mine and walk towards the elevator. “Which floor?” I ask, staring at the numbered dots.

“Seven.” I nod before pressing the button and making it light before we start lifting. When the elevator dings and the doors open, she looks… nervous, her bottom lip pulled between tiny white teeth as we step out into the hall. It’s a nice apartment building. Not luxury, which is a small surprise considering how she dresses and acts, but nice all the same.

“Which way?” Once again, she points to the left.

“17A.” Walking that way together, fingers still entwined, I’m shocked by the disappointment coursing through my system. Disappointment that the night is over. And not because I want to follow her into her apartment. It’s a disappointment because this won’t end the way most men hope a great date with a beautiful woman ends. Because I like being with her. I like spending time with her, even when she’s uptight and in interviewer mode. I like her when she’s tipsy and giggling with Jordan, who is a blast, it seems. I like seeing her with my childhood friend and rolling her eyes at his obvious and endless come-ons. I liked it when Chris tried every line on her, and she didn’t get offended or annoyed. Instead, she just laughed it off or gave him advice on how to improve his game.

I like her.

And I need to convince her to give me a chance with her, not some random woman she thinks would work.

“This is me,” she says as we stop in front of a big metal door, a small welcome in front of the door that says ‘hello’ in some kind of fancy, girly font. Below is a second, larger checked rug, which makes no sense to me at all. Why have two? My mind comes off that useless thought because even though I have sisters, I will never understand a woman’s brain regarding fashion or decor. “I had… I had a lot of fun tonight, Luke. Thank you. I can’t remember when I had this much fun. Please tell everyone thank you for being so kind and welcoming to me.”

“They all loved you.” She smiles, but for some reason, it’s like she doesn’t believe me, doesn’t trust the words I’m saying. “So when is our next date?”

“What?”

“I get two, right? To prove myself?” I don’t tell her that I’m proving myself to her, not to her business. That’s for later.

“Oh, yeah. Uhm. You can call the office when you know your schedule. I can fit you in.” That rubs me wrong.

Fit me in. Why does the thought of her dating other men, even in a clinical, professional way, make me fucking furious?

“Saturday,” I say. It’s Tuesday. Well, Wednesday now. That gives me three days to plan.

“What?”

“Our next date. Saturday.”

“This Saturday?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, this Saturday.” She pauses like she’s not sure what to say.

“I don’t do dates on Saturdays.”

“That wasn’t in your rules.”

“I keep to weekdays.”

“Well, then you don’t have anything scheduled for Saturday.” She moves to argue with me, but instead, I lean forward and take her keys, unwinding the key to her car to move it before sliding the remaining key into her lock.

“Ten?”

“Ten.”

“At night?” I laugh. How does her brain work?

“In the morning.”

“That’s too early for dinner.” Her eyebrows are scrunched together, her mind working to try and figure out what is going on.

“My date, my rules. I’ll text you details.”

“You really don’t have to, I can—” but she doesn’t finish.

She can’t finish.

Because she’s pushed against the apartment door, metal cool beneath my hand pressed to the small of her back. My lips are a millimeter from hers. The air between us is electric like it’s been since last night, since the day we met on the side of the road.

But I wait.

I let her lead.

I can’t fuck this up with her.

I won’t fuck this up with her.

And then it happens.

She closes the tiny gap, her full lips pressing to mine and tasting like Coca-Cola and liquor and the coconut chapstick she put on no less than ten times tonight, and I groan. I groan at the taste, at her permission, at her taking that leap.

And then I kiss her, smooth lips moving against my own, her hand coming to rest on at the beard I need to shave before work in just a few hours. My hand on her back pulls her closer, and her other hand lifts to go around my neck, pulling me closer as her tiny tongue reaches out to taste my lip, touching mine with just the barest, feather-light touch, and God, God, all I want is to take this further. To go further. To follow her into that apartment.