Just My Type(37)

“Okay, this is the place.”

“Thrusts,” I sigh in response to Baker, realizing I just finished my thought out loud. “I mean trust. I trust you’ve done your research on this place.”

With my back to Baker, I’m able to roll my eyes at myself without him seeing, as I get out of his Jeep he parked in front of the pet store. After he locks the Jeep and walks around the vehicle to meet me on the sidewalk, we walk up to the building, where he quickly moves in front of me to hold the door open.

Before I let him distract me with his stupid gentlemanly manners, stupid man smell, stupid sexy voice, the way his stupid black jeans hug his stupid tight ass so perfectly, and the stupid white T-shirt that shows off his stupid impressive arms, I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my skinny jeans and quickly start recording. Stopping right inside the door, with the sounds of birds squawking and puppies barking, I turn to face Baker, bringing my fist up between us, pinky finger extended.

“We are here to work, while also finding an age-appropriate pet for my son that will teach him responsibility, and give us both something warm to cuddle at night. There will be no flirting, roving hands, or sexual comments of any nature. This is strictly a business meeting. Pinky swear,” I state.

He closes the distance between us and wraps his pinky around mine, that maddening dimple indenting his cheek as he looks at me.

“I’m assuming we’re making this pinky swear for my benefit, since you can’t keep your hands off me and all that.” He smiles, eyeing our joined pinkies moving up and down between us as we “shake” on it. “It’s nice to know you take my comfort around you seriously. Also, I’m always available if you need a good cuddling, if this pet thing doesn’t work out.”

Yanking my finger out of his grasp, I shake my head at him.

“Pinky swearing is perfectly within the professional guidelines of this business arrangement. And it’s a legal, binding agreement, punishable in a court of law, to keep you in line. There is nothing flirty or sexual about our pinkies touching.”

“Depends which part of you I’m touching with my pinky,” Baker mutters, his eyes taking their time scanning up and down my body.

I thought wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a T-shirt with a flannel tied around my waist, an old pair of white Chucks, and throwing my hair up in a messy bun would deter Baker from looking at me like he’s trying to figure out which part he should taste first, but clearly not. I feel the heat from his eyes scorching a trail of fire over every inch of me he studies, until his eyes are back on mine again.

“Behave. You pinky swore,” I growl, listening to him chuckle as I turn and walk away from him to start looking around.

“What made you decide to get your son a pet?” Baker asks a few minutes later, after we’ve made it over to a huge pen of kittens in the middle of the room.

We both squat down, sticking our fingers through the metal cage to pet a few of the little fluff balls.

“Honestly? His father told me no.” I shrug, scratching a black kitten behind the ears.

Baker laughs, and I glance over at him to see him focused on a white kitten with black spots currently chewing on one of his fingers.

“That sounds about right. Something tells me you don’t really like being told no.”

“It’s not just that; it’s the principal of the thing. He didn’t care that it would make Lincoln happy, or that he’s been working harder in school and doing extra chores to earn this pet. He didn’t even want to discuss it. He just flat-out said no, because he didn’t want to deal with it,” I explain.

“And how did he take it when you told him you were going to do what you want?” Baker asks as we stand back up and move over to the wall of hamsters.

“Silence. Complete, dumbfounded silence. Probably because I called him a dickhole and told him I would punch him in the face, after he made it sound like taking care of our son was already a chore and he didn’t want to add a pet to that mix,” I tell him with a sigh. “Contrary to what I’ve led you to believe, I haven’t always been so amazingly vocal about my feelings and what I’m thinking. I changed when I married Brandon. And changed even more when he moved us here, to fit the mold he wanted. I probably gave him a minor heart attack when I told him off, but damn, did it feel good. I felt like me again, and I haven’t really been me in a very long time. Not since I started—”

I quickly cut myself off before I say something stupid like, “Not since I started talking to you.” When I realize I’ve been standing here rambling while I stared at a hamster running on its wheel, I turn to find Baker studying me.

“Well, I happen to like the you I’ve gotten to know over the last month. Your ex is clearly a dipshit who didn’t understand the thrill of being with someone who challenges you and keeps you on your toes, wondering what will come out of their mouth next.”

Not wanting to analyze how warm and fuzzy hearing him say that makes me feel, I walk away from him to look at another cage of hamsters, who are currently trying to see who can shovel the most food into their cheeks at one time.

“I’m curious. You mentioned childcare options to me twice now in your emails. What exactly would you have done if I told you I needed a sitter?” I ask, watching Baker squat down to look into a tarantula cage. “Don’t even think about it. The only creepy-crawly things allowed in my home are the ones that have already met their timely demise by way of a rolled up newspaper or being smacked repeatedly with one of my shoes.”