Crazy Girl(55)

The pad of his finger circled against the soft flesh of my inner thigh in a maddening but delicious tease.

The way my belly tightened in anticipation as he inched closer and closer to my core.

The rich smell of his leather seats, soft on the nostrils yet exciting.

The struggle to sit still, to wait for him to touch me where I desperately ached to be touched.

The look of determination on his face as he watched the road, mouth tight, the muscles tensing from his neck all the way down his right arm.

The cool glass beneath my hand.

The radio softly playing in the background.

I was lost in my scene, typing away, when I heard the chair across from me at my table screech against the floor. Popping my head up, I found a bright-eyed Brigham taking a seat, a cup of coffee in hand.

“Hello, friend.” He beamed a perfect grin, his eyes squinting slightly.

“Hey,” I squeaked out, surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

He snorted because it was a ridiculous question. Obviously, he was there for coffee. Shaking my head, I backpedaled. “Hi, Brigham,” I started over as I leaned back in my chair. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“See how we make such amazing friends,” he replied. “I like coffee,” he motioned to the cup in his hand before motioning back to me, “You like coffee.”

“Clearly it was fate that we met,” I jested.

“There’s no such thing as fate, Hannah.”

Tilting my head, I watched him a moment before responding. “Or luck…” I said, touching on something he’d said the night we met.

“Or destiny, chance, serendipity, happenstance. None of that shit,” he shot back.

I smirked. “So cynical, Brigham.”

“Smart,” he retorted as he leaned forward putting his forearms on the table. “What are you over here working on? You had your head buried in that computer and didn’t even check me out when I came in. I’m offended.”

I laughed. He was impossible. “Writing.”

He tilted his head. “Writing what? You got some kind of virtual diary on there where you jot down little notes about love and destiny?” He was mocking me. Jerk. But his teasing really didn’t faze me. And maybe because I actually didn’t care what Brigham thought of me, it didn’t bother me. Not even a little bit.

But teasing him was too much fun. He was the type of person that needed attention. So I glared at him pretending to be offended. “Actually, I write romance novels.”

And there it was…that flicker men got when I told them what I did. Romance meant something so different to men than to women. Women thought love and passion. Men wanted to know how vivid the sex scenes were.

“Seriously?” he inquired. His upper lip curled slightly as if pleased by this revelation.

“No, I’m lying to you,” I snared. “Yes, seriously.”

“You know,” he bobbed his head a few times, “I always thought someone should write a book about me.”

I pressed my lips together to fight the smile. What he’d said was pretty much what seventy percent of men said to me. They all thought they’d lived this impressive life that should be written into a masterpiece like they’re some kind of Rudy. Oddly enough, not one woman I’d ever met and informed them of what I did had said that to me.

“I’m not quite sure I could capture your true essence,” I teased him. “Nor do I have the time to try and make your sexual escapades sound romantic to my readers.”

He chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling. He enjoyed our banter. He liked firing me up. “I’ll have to look you up.”

Again…how many men had said that to me? I’d lost count. I’d give this one about a ten percent likeliness of that happening. “Can I read what you’ve got there?” He pointed to my laptop.

I glanced at my screen at the scene I’d written and debated. That wasn’t something I did usually, unless it was with Courtney. My best friend was one of the only people I ever let peek at my work before it was completed. The scene, though descriptive, was short so I couldn’t think of a reason not to let him. It didn’t give the storyline away, and Brigham didn’t strike me as someone that really cared anyway. “Sure,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure at all. If I thought about it too long, I’d change my mind. “It’s just a small scene.”

Spinning the computer around, he pulled it to him and used the mouse to adjust the page. I sipped my coffee as he read, watching him, as if any movement of his face might reveal his thoughts to me. When he was done, he smirked and nodded a few times. Turning the computer around, he pushed it back to me.

“So that’s what you write?” I couldn’t gauge what he thought about it. Maybe it surprised him I’d let him read such a vivid and erotic scene, or maybe it surprised him plain old me even wrote something like it to begin with.

I shrugged in answer, refusing to ask him what he thought. I would’ve liked to have known if he thought my writing was good.

“So I’m guessing this guy Alex is the usual perfect alpha male like in most of these lady sex books.”

“Lady sex books?” I raised one brow.

“You know what I mean.” He scratched at his chin. “The man that doesn’t exist. This guy that has plowed through women his entire life, looks good, has money, the whole package, that suddenly lays eyes on one woman and he changes for her.”