Do You Take This Man (24)

I’d asked myself that a thousand times since last Saturday. “I do hate him! We were arguing like normal. He was annoying and not listening to me, but we were so close together, and he smelled so good, and then I just lost my head and I wanted to kiss him. I was about to kiss this man with two hundred people right there.”

Britta’s grin widened on the small screen of my phone. “So you didn’t kiss, but you were close enough to? That’s hot.”

“It wasn’t hot.” Warmth rose up my chest. “I mean, it was fine,” I said, schooling my expression and trying not to linger on how firm his chest had felt under my palms or how he’d pressed his tongue to the corner of his lip like he’d be good at sex. I clenched my thighs. “Maybe a little better than fine,” I grumbled, still glancing around to make sure no one was nearby.

“A little better than fine?” Britta was in a park somewhere, stretching while talking to me. Her face was flushed and sweaty and she’d probably just finished a run. “It seems odd you’d be in a hurry to tell me about a slightly-more-than-adequate almost-kiss that happened a week ago.”

“It was better than adequate,” I said, sipping my macchiato. I lowered my voice and held the phone close. “It was hot, okay? I can’t get him out of my head, and I absolutely can’t let it happen again. I’m working a bunch of weddings with him this summer.”

Britta laughed. “I’m still confused. What made you want to?”

I bit my lip, something unusual for me. I could usually play it cool, and I didn’t enjoy feeling out of sorts. “I never would have before. He’s not the kind of guy I go for.”

“So, he has a job and doesn’t live in his mom’s basement until his YouTube following takes off?”

“That was one guy.”

“Corey was awful, even for a booty call.”

I waved my hand in front of the phone. Corey was safe—he let me call the shots, didn’t demand anything, and walking away from him was as easy as sending a text and unsubscribing from his channel. “Corey was good for stress relief. Easy and uncomplicated.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘pothead.’ Anyway, back to the dude-bro.”

I sighed. “So, the night before, I’d had a dream about him.”

She laughed. “What kind of dream?”

“You know the kind of dream.” I woke grasping the ends of it, knowing only that we’d ended up in bed. In truth, I’d been seconds away from a powerful orgasm when I woke with the image of Lear’s face between my legs, and I’d still been reeling from the flashbacks when I touched him in the alcove, the heat in his eyes from our argument feeling strangely erotic. I squeezed my thighs together again. “I’ve been under a lot of stress at work and I have a vivid imagination. It was a detailed dream. I think I just need to find someone to help me scratch the itch.” I remembered the feel of his mouth in the dream and flushed. “There’s no way Lear Campbell’s that skilled in actual life, anyway.”

Britta’s expression changed, but before I could ask her what was wrong, I was interrupted.

“I don’t know. I think I have some skills.”

I froze at the deep voice behind me. Britta’s eyes were saucers. “The guy you’re talking about . . . is he tall with light brown hair? Kinda cute?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. “Yeah.”

“Hi, I’m Lear,” he said, waving over my shoulder. His hair was plastered to his head and some kind of workout shirt covered the expanse of his chest and shoulders.

Britta looked between him and me on the screen. I had AirPods in, so he couldn’t hear her, but she waved back.

“I gotta go, Britt.”

“Good luck,” she said, clearly trying to hide a laugh. “Oh, and he’s good-looking. Way better than Corey. Maybe you should see if these skills can help with that itch of yours.”

I hoped when I hung up and raised my eyes from my phone, luck would have rained down on me and he’d be gone so I could figure out how to handle this, but no. My luck was the same as ever, and not only was he still there, he was sliding into the chair across from me, holding a bottle of water and two slices of the lemon loaf I’d drooled over at the counter. Damn, the cake looked good. He looked good, too, even sweaty. He pushed his hair back after setting the plates down, the muscles in his arm flexing at the movement and reminding me of how I’d wanted him to touch me in that alcove, how the stretch of his fingers would have felt against my skin.

He held out one slice, and I pushed the thought away. “I saw you over here and thought you might want a snack. It’s not Life Savers, but . . .”

“Thank you.” I should have refused and swept up the little pride I had left, but my stomach grumbled, and I reminded myself I had a lot of work ahead of me in the office. I accepted the cake. “How do you know about my Life Savers?” I’d never smoked, but one day I might need a patch for the candy.

“A bunch of them fell out of your purse the day we met.”

“When you were running around the city, looking for women who might not be smiling?”

“I’m sorry I said that. I don’t have an excuse, but I was way out of line.” His cheeks reddened. Lear was careful not to touch me as he handed me the treat and immediately sat back in his chair. “I was beyond out of line.”