The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(48)

"Small blessings," he murmured. "Can I take you out tonight, pretty magic girl?"

I ran my hand down Ben's arm, wiping away more rainwater. "No, not tonight," I said with a decisive head shake.

"Oh. Okay, then," he said, his shoulders slumping a bit.

"But I can take you home with me and toss those wet clothes in the dryer if you want," I suggested. "Maybe order takeout. Watch another game."

Ben stared at me. A glass shattered on the other side of the bar. A bolt of thunder cracked overhead and the power flickered. A rivulet of rain ran over his forehead, around his nose, down the scar on his cheek. He went on staring.

Then he drove his fingers into my hair and brought his lips a breath from mine. "Yeah," he whispered, pressing a tiny kiss to the corner of my mouth. "Take me home, pretty magic girl."





Chapter Twenty-Two





My date was dripping wet. I wasn't much better.

"Um, okay." I watched as rainwater pooled at Ben's feet. The drive from the bar to my house did little to dry his clothes and now my entryway was experiencing flood conditions. Hurricane Ben, making landfall. "You need to take those clothes off."

"Took the words right outta my mouth," Ben said.

I raked my hand through my damp hair. The storm was bearing down hard and even the quick sprint from the driveway to the door had my t-shirt plastered to my skin. I banded my arm over my chest to keep the print of my bra from screaming through the now-sheer fabric.

"You're going to catch your death like that," I said, waving a vague hand at his chest. "And—and wet jeans are super uncomfortable. I've walked around Canobie Lake Park after getting soaked on the log ride enough times to know how unpleasant wet jeans can be. I remember spending most of my eighth grade class trip sitting on a bench, cursing my friends for insisting on hitting the log ride first and wishing my pants were dry." Another vague gesture. "You need to take those off."

Ben motioned up and down his body. "I want to be extremely clear about what you're suggesting before getting naked in your living room because I'm not gonna fuck things up with you over a misunderstanding," he said. "You're asking me to strip, pretty girl? That's what you want? Right here? Right now?"

My dog Gronk, that lazy bones, chose this moment to wander out of my bedroom with a jaw-popping yawn. He eyed me with mild interest, a half-hearted Oh, you're back? Do you plan on feeding me now? snort but then he spotted Ben and the bark-a-thon commenced.

"Hey, buddy," Ben called to the pup. "Remember me from across the street? We met a couple of weeks ago. You marked my yard in fifteen or twenty spots and I gave you carrots. I thought we were friends."

Gronk stopped barking for a second, his body vibrating and his little paws tap dancing in place as he regarded Ben.

"Friend," I said to Gronk, my hand pressed to Ben's chest. "Quiet down. You don't need to defend the fortress from this guy."

That didn't stop Gronk. He went on huffing and snorting, shaking with each bark.

"I get it, buddy. You're just protecting your mama," Ben said. He knelt down, holding out his palm to Gronk. The pup stared at Ben, his barks quieting to low snarls. Then Gronk inched closer. "That's right, buddy. Come here, give me a sniff, give me some licks." Gronk lapped at Ben's palm. Then he growled with delight when Ben shifted to scratch his head. "We can be friends, can't we?"

"He doesn't usually like men," I said, an arm still shielding my bra from view. Leave it to me to wear a cute sailor-striped bra with a white t-shirt on a stormy day. Brilliant. "He's had some bad experiences."

"No, we're gonna be good friends," Ben argued, pushing him onto his back. He scratched the dog's belly and head at the same time and yeah, he was charming Gronk like a dog whisperer with bacon in his pocket. "Me and this guy, we're on the same team."

Ben gifted Gronk a full-body rub and ear scratch before standing up. The dog was lying on his side, his tongue lolling out as he panted. Blissed out.

Gronk wasn't the kind of dog who fell for cheap tricks like belly rubbing and head scratching. No, Gronk made people work for his affections and he rarely granted them to men. After the situation with my ex—the dognapper—Gronk turned his back on anyone with a penis. Not that I blamed him. I did the same thing, mostly.

"Still want me to strip?" Ben asked, his thumb hooked around his belt buckle.

I reached for him, bringing my palm to his chest for a second as if I needed to confirm he was actually wet. Done. Confirmed. But I didn't pull my hand back. No, I went on rubbing all over him like I was marinating meat.

"You need to dry off. You're cold and wet, and that can't be a good way to, you know, watch a game."

"Terrible way to watch a game." A grin pulled at one corner of his mouth as he toed off his shoes. He pointed over my shoulder, toward the back of the house. "You got a bathroom back there? A shower, some towels? I smell like a wet newspaper and that's no treat."

Holy hell. I was the worst hostess. The absolute worst. If my aunt was here, she would've smacked my ass with a dish towel while simultaneously scooting some stuffed mushrooms under the broiler, mixing a pitcher of Manhattans, and asking whether Ben kept crystals. I didn't know how to stuff mushrooms and I doubted Ben wanted any fungus from me, and Manhattans were out of the question on account of what the fuck were Manhattans? And I wasn't getting into it with him on the topic of crystals.