Just My Type(20)

I take another peek at Baker’s profile as we step off the pier and take a left to start walking the few blocks to his gym. He’s probably right around six feet tall, maybe. Who the hell knows? He towers over me just like everyone else in the world. He definitely doesn’t have tree trunk arms that could squash my head like a nut, but sweet Jesus, the muscles he does have are things of beauty. I want to write a thank you letter to whoever made the navy blue T-shirt he’s wearing, which isn’t grossly skin-tight, but just fitted enough that I want to titter like Skanky Giggler and say something stupid like, “You must work out a lot, huh?”

Of course he works out. He owns a gym. For disabled veterans. Jesus Christ, can this guy get any more perfect on paper? He’s all lean muscle instead of big and bulky, with a tapered waist, in dark jeans that fit him like they were made for him, short, dark brown hair that’s a little longer and artfully messy on top, chiseled jawline with dark scruff, and gorgeous blue eyes with the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. He’s not just hot. He’s goddamn pretty.

Remember Carson Jameson? Captain of the football team. Total jock. And a total douchebag prick who told me I had a fat ass when I wouldn’t blow him. And don’t forget about Ryan Andrews, who could have been an Abercrombie and Fitch model, and was a star forward on the basketball team. The guy I gave my virginity to, who then told the whole school all about it in explicit detail. Like how I cried after. At least I got my revenge when I told everyone I cried because his dick was so small.

It’s no wonder I think Baker is hot. He’s a jock. Who will eventually turn into a giant douchebag prick. I know his type. I dated his type up until I met my ex. Sure, he’s got a great sense of humor now, but it won’t be long before he’s telling me I have a fat ass, and hosting a cabaret all about our sex life for everyone he knows.

For fuck’s sake, what is wrong with me? I rub up against my first hot guy in a decade, and I’m already planning our future. This is a job. Not a date. There will be no sex life.

“You can ask me about my leg,” Baker suddenly mutters after I slowed down my walking speed, a touch of annoyance in his voice.

Since I’m still gawking at his profile, I can even see the annoyance written all over his face. He doesn’t want me to ask about it. He definitely doesn’t want to talk about it.

I say something flippant, asking if he’ll need me to carry him. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, so I figured I’d be my usual, charming self. I noticed his limp as soon as we started walking away from the table at Starbucks. It’s none of my business why he’s limping. If he wants to tell me, that’s fine. I’m not going to pry, even though he’s technically a stranger and I probably should so I can learn more about him. Still, none of my business.

Baker laughs softly and finally turns to look at me. The annoyance has been replaced with creases around his eyes, which are bright with humor, and a dimple in one cheek as he smiles at me. He likes it that I’m a smartass. I like that he likes I’m a smartass.

I have no business liking that he likes anything about me.

“No,” Baker replies, answering my question about having to carry him. “Shot full of shrapnel, total knee replacement. It bothers me sometimes, but I can carry myself.”

I can clearly see how well he carries himself. I can’t stop staring at him carrying himself, with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, forcing the cut of his arm muscles to be more defined.

Bad, Ember, bad! Down, girl!

I say something else sarcastic about how he’d kill me if I tried to carry him, and I tell him I don’t give a shit about his knee. I’m being honest. As long as it has nothing to do with me, why should I worry about his knee? I mean, I feel a little bad that it’s bothering him right now, but he’s not crying, and I don’t need to call 911, so he must be okay. I’m not going to fawn all over him, making a big deal about something he’s clearly not comfortable talking about.

“I’m not usually this honest with people. At least, I haven’t been in a long time,” I admit to Baker as he pauses at an intersection.

He immediately puts his arm out across my chest, looking both ways before dropping it as we start walking again.

Like a goddamn boy scout. Nope. Not turned on at all. Not one bit.

All of a sudden, he starts walking a little faster to get in front of me, veering to the left and pulling open a glass door for me at a two-story, brick building. I can see backward etching on the glass door he holds open that says The Barracks, and realize we’ve arrived at our destination. When I walk past him to enter, Baker leans his face down close to me, his cheek brushing against mine. I have no choice but to stop right there in the open doorway, trying not to shiver having Baker’s mouth so close to mine.

Go back to sleep, ovaries. Nothing to see here.

“I’m glad you’re honest with me,” he says in a low voice. “I like it when you give me shit.” He pulls his head back and smiles down at me with a wink. “Just don’t go getting too soft on me now, Tink.”

I snort and roll my eyes like he’s the most annoying person in the world as I start walking again and move past him, inside the gym.

A wink and a Tink. Two of my least favorite things a guy could do, and my ovaries have not only woken up from their long slumber; they’re currently trying to claw their way out of my body.