Just My Type(18)

See you Sunday, Baker. If you don’t tell me your last name as soon as I sit down so I can immediately google you, I will knock you out with my slick karate moves and harvest your kidneys.

Just kidding! Maybe.

Ember “I Haven’t Harvested a Kidney in at Least Five Years” Hastings





CHAPTER 8





BAKER

Huh


I see Ember before she sees me. I would know her anywhere, even in a crowded coffee shop, and with only a back view photo to go on.

Fine, so she did a complete circle looking around for me and I recognized that great ass. Whatever. I’m a guy. Tits and ass will always be my first focus.

I don’t realize I’m sitting here staring with my mouth open until a little coffee from the cup still held up by my mouth drips down my chin. With a muttered curse, I set the cup down and wipe my chin with the back of my hand, my eyes never leaving the blonde over by the door as she continues to slowly scan the crowd.

Her long, wavy blonde hair is the same as in the picture, hanging loose around her shoulders and down her back. She’s wearing a tiny pair of black shorts, and I now realize the jeans she had on in her profile picture hid some amazing legs underneath them. She’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt that hangs loose off one bare, sexy shoulder, and I smile to myself when she turns around again. I get another look at that perfect ass, and it’s good to have confirmation it really wasn’t Ember’s mom in that profile photo. And her face? Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful. Tiny features, with big, bright eyes and full, pink lips. She looks like fucking Tinkerbell, standing over by the windows in a ray of sunshine. The goddamn dust particles floating around her head look like fairy dust.

Blake has a four-year-old daughter. I’ve seen some fairy dust shit.

I wonder what exactly she’s looking for? A guy with a paunch and a baby face that’s scrunched up like he’s constipated?

I can’t believe I let Blake talk me into sending Ember a picture of her holding that damn photo she keeps in a frame on the desk at the gym.

She’s probably looking for the bulked-up meathead who has to turn sideways to get through a doorway.

What are the odds? What are the goddamn odds that someone with my same ridiculous sense of humor would randomly live where I do, and she’s so fucking gorgeous I want to point and laugh at all the men looking over at her right now, wondering if they’ve got a shot?

Mine.

Something resembling a growl comes out of my mouth when Ember’s eyes lock on mine. I don’t even know this woman, and I already want to punch every guy in here in the fucking throat for looking at her. I’ve spoken to her a handful of times. Over email. Just because she makes me laugh, doesn’t mean she won’t boil a bunny or two. She mentioned going through some shit, and sitting around feeling sorry for herself. A hot pair of legs walking toward me in high-heeled ankle boots doesn’t mean she won’t have a nasally, Janice from Friends voice that will make my ears bleed, while she cries at the drop of a hat about the shit she’s going through.

“Good thing I didn’t bring any oranges. I’d never get freshly squeezed juice out of those puny arms.”

Jesus Christ, my dick is hard.

That is definitely not a Janice voice. Ember’s voice is smoky and hot as fuck. Like Miley Cyrus without the twang.

Again, four-year-old niece, who just discovered Hanna Montana. Fuck off.

I don’t even know when I stood up from my chair, but here I stand, towering over sexy Tinkerbell, wrapping my hand around the one she holds out to me. Her eyes never leave mine, and when the fuck did I forget how to speak?

“I wouldn’t talk too much smack. You’re so tiny I could fit you in my pocket,” I finally manage to get out with a smirk.

And let you do dirty things to me while you’re in there.

She rolls her eyes at me, which I can now see are a gorgeous bright green. I drop her soft, warm hand, even though I want to grab back onto it and yank her against me.

Christ, I need to get it together.

“Full name is Baker Jackson Matthews,” I tell her, sliding my hands into the front pockets of my jeans. “My gym is called The Barracks, because I want the people who use it to think of it as their home away from home, just like the barracks when you’re in the military. It’s a few blocks away from here, and I live in the loft above the gym, because it’s convenient. Not because I use it as a murder lair and do murdery things up there after the gym closes. I was injured during my last tour with the Army nine years ago, and I was honorably discharged. The Barracks is just for wounded veterans, so they can feel human again, and not like a patient. It’s where they’ll have some control, and not feel like they’re an invalid surrounded by hospital equipment and the smell of antiseptic in the air. I want to expand. I don’t have the money to expand. I’ve been offered the money, but only if I promote The Barracks more, to bring in more donations. Which is the reason for the magazine article and the interview.”

I cut off my explanation with a sigh, giving her everything she needs to know that I didn’t want to give her in an email, so she can feel a little more comfortable being here with me. I hold my breath and wait for the look of pity, sadness, hero-worship, the quick scan of my body looking for injuries, or whatever the fuck else is bound to cross her face, and the reason why I might be second-guessing this meet-up right now. I liked that she didn’t know who I was and treated me like any other guy. I liked that she was different from all the rest.