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“Nothing. You were tellin’ me about the dirty sex you had with Oliver.”
I let out another groan that made her laugh. “I swear, you say these things just to torture me.” While she tried to convince me that it was natural for a mother and daughter to talk openly about sex, I looked up Oliver’s blog and searched for his advice on what to do after you’ve bedded the girl.
“Are you even listening?”
“Of course, I am. You didn’t ask for whore red, you asked for sultry red.” He advised one guy to send roses, any color but red, but another guy was advised to send a small trinket as long as it wasn’t a ring. Typical.
“I think maybe you could do with some whore red in your life. There’s a little too much gray. And carnation pink.”
I stood and slowly made my way to the box, looking down at my steel gray dress with the rose pink cardigan. “Those colors flatter my skin tone and they work well for day and evening looks.”
“Boring is what you’re tryin’ real hard not to say, sweetie.”
The box was long but not quite as long for flowers, unless he didn’t spring for the long stems, which I wouldn’t judge him for. Much. There was no logo or insignia, just brown cardboard. “What’s that, Mama?”
“Am I boring you, child?”
“No, Mama, of course not.” I told her about the delivery.
“From Oliver? Open it up! What are you waiting for?” She was at least five times more excited than I was, which was a little unsettling.
“Calm down, Mama. It’s probably flowers.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Doubtful. Oliver comes across as shallow but only for the first five minutes, as I’m sure you’ve learned already.”
I had, but that didn’t change who he was. “Maybe. But anything too deep or personal might send the wrong message.” I peeled the tape off the box, looked inside, and let out a loud belly laugh.
“What is it? What did he send?”
It took a few minutes for my laughter to die down, but when I could speak, I told her what it was. “A Louisiana BBQ starter kit. With tools. Pink tools.”
Mama laughed long and hard, tickled by his charming and unique gift. “Damn, charming and funny. Be careful, Eva, even you might not be strong enough to resist that combination and that face.”
I had a feeling she was right because, dammit, I was starting to like Oliver March.
I was starting to like him a lot.Oliver“Dude, what’s up with you?” My producer, Michelle, glared at me, but I didn’t miss the worry in her eyes. “You’re checked out.”
She wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t been able to focus at all today—hell, for the past couple of days, if I’m being honest—and it was all Eva’s fault. That sexy little witch had put a spell on me so that she was the only constant thought in my mind. Eva and breathing.
Breathing Eva in.
Michelle snapped her fingers at me. “See what I’m talking about? You can’t even give me two damn minutes? You’d better use whatever this is,” she pointed to my head, “for the show.”
I nodded and dropped down in the oversized leather chair where I interviewed my guests and talked shit with my listeners. The other chair was empty for now, with ten minutes until the show went live. Which meant I had ten damn minutes to get my head twisted on straight and to remember that I was Your Best Bachelor, not some lovesick schoolboy.
But the truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about her—specifically about how she’d been during our night together. So wild and beautiful, so free with her smiles and her affection, giving pleasure like she had an endless supply. Even now, when my producer and the rest of the crew whispered to each other about what was going on with me, I could only hear Eva’s sweet little erotic cries, her needy moans. The way she bit down on her bottom lip when pleasure threatened to overwhelm her. I wished I had an answer for the crew and myself, but I didn’t and that pissed me off. Left me feeling unsettled.
“Man, whatever it is that has everyone so worried, you’ve got it bad.” Chris deep laugh brought me out of my thoughts with less than five minutes to spare.
“I was just getting my thoughts together for the show.”
“Bullshit,” he shot back easily and that was pretty much the whole podcast went, Chris acting as host to my distracted absentminded professor. He did a damn fine job, and if I didn’t get my act together, it wouldn’t matter if I won or lost the bet with Eva—I might be out of a job.
“Does being a bachelor inform how you create characters in your stories?”
Chris blinked. “Welcome back, and sometimes, sure. There’s usually a jet-setting woman who meets an untimely demise in my books, and she may or may not be based on someone I knew once.”
