Arrogant Devil(74)

“Jack.”

“What?” I tease. “Now we’re even. We both know what the other is doing when they’re in the shower.”

“I don’t do it in the shower,” she mumbles, almost as if she doesn’t realize she’s saying the words out loud.

“Interesting.”

She catches herself and shakes her head, chopping at double speed now. She’s entered some kind of apple-chopping competition with herself.

“This is inappropriate.”

Chop, chop, chop. She’s about to lose a finger.

“You’re the one who tried to come into the bathroom while I was showering.”

“To give you a towel!”

She’s getting hysterical.

I turn to head up to my office. “Uh-huh.”

A piece of apple hits me smack-dab in the back of the head as I walk away. Alfred snatches it up before I can.



A week later, Meredith convinces me to watch a chick flick with her. Edith is out with her friends, so it’s just Meredith, me, and Alfred. He’s up on the couch between us, taking up more space than the both of us combined. Meredith is wearing a tank top and pajama shorts. Her legs are hidden under a blanket, and her attention is focused squarely on the TV.

On her lap is a bowl of popcorn she just made for us. I’m watching her bring each kernel to her lips, and I have a pillow strategically placed on my lap.

Alfred is scowling at me like, Really, dude? Can’t the girl just eat her popcorn in peace?

Meredith smiles. “I love this part.”

I make a noncommittal sound and it sounds a lot like someone just kneed me in the groin, but she doesn’t notice. She holds the bowl of popcorn out for me.

“Want some?”

I hold up my hand. “No thanks.”

She sets it down on the table and stands. “I gotta go wash my hands. You want a beer?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” And while you’re at it, would you mind grabbing a weapon and putting me out of my misery?

She drops an ice-cold bottle of Blue Moon over my shoulder a few minutes later.

“Here, I put an orange slice in there for you.”

My favorite.

She saunters around the couch and scoots Alfred to the floor. “Ah,” she sighs, stretching out with a content little smile on her face. “Much better.”

Her legs are stretched out toward me now, and her toes hit my thighs.

“Whoops,” she says, scooting them back a little.

“It’s fine.”

I reach out and tug them back where they were. It’s nothing—or it should be. I’m touching her ankle, and yet it’s erotic. The pillow’s fabric is straining.

The movie continues, and I sip my beer, all the while trying to reason with myself about why it’d be a good idea to turn and kiss her. Maybe she wants to move on from her ex? Maybe she’s just as sex-deprived as I am? Maybe you’re an opportunistic asshole. Leave her alone.

Characters I’m not invested in are suddenly ripping their clothes off on screen. They’ve been avoiding each other for the whole movie, building toward this sexy scene. They’re really going at it—stumbling into things, bumping against walls, making picture frames crash to the floor.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if sex was actually like that?” Meredith laughs. “Like if you kept having to run to IKEA to replace all your broken lamps and shattered vases because you were so turned on that you lost all spatial awareness?”

I can’t help but smile. “That’s actually happened to me before.”

“You broke a lamp?”

She makes it sound like it’s completely absurd.

“Didn’t shatter the base, just the bulb.”

“You’re kidding.”

I sip my beer, anxious for the next subject.

“How?” she asks, amazed.

“I needed to use the side table for…well…” I clear my throat, aware that there’s no way of continuing without getting graphic. “Leverage, and I accidentally knocked the lamp to the ground. The light bulb shattered, but you’re right, it wasn’t as dramatic as this.”

“Oh.”

She sounds like she’s in a daze. I stare intently at the TV.

“So you were on top of the girl.”

Her voice sounds shaky.

“Woman,” I correct. “Yes.”

“And just how much…leverage…do you usually need?”

This question, asked with her innocent lilt, is made worse by the fact that the characters on screen are going all out, scene after scene of rhythmic gyrations overlaid with moaning and groaning. Time seems to slow to a crawl.

I push to stand, finish off my beer, and deposit the empty bottle on the coffee table.

I know when I’ve reached my limit, and talking about having sex, while listening to people have sex, while Meredith is just sitting there, perfectly…well, perfect, is…fuck.

“Anyway, I’m going for a run,” I announce, tugging on the sneakers I left by the door.

Then I just turn and walk out.

Running is not something I do. I don’t need to; working around the ranch is enough of a workout on its own. Lately, though, I’ve been running a lot—all the time, in fact. I run after I catch sight of a sliver of Meredith’s stomach when she reaches for a glass on the higher shelf in the cabinets. I run after she makes a joke at dinner and brushes my arm gently. I run after she walks into my office with some afternoon coffee and a freshly baked muffin. She sets it down on my desk and winks then just strolls right back out, hips swaying. I run because it’s the only damn thing I can do that helps me blow off steam without feeling like a predator.