Page 56 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

She straddles my hips willingly, grinding down on my cock like it’s her job. I’ll pay her overtime in friend hugs if she keeps moving her hips like that. Leave her extra love notes on her Jeep if she keeps looking at me with that intoxicating rush of absolute desire.

I yank her coat open, help her shrug it off, then cup her breast over her soft sweater. “You’re so fucking sexy. I can’t take it.”

She runs her hand over the ridge of my erection, gripping me through my cargo pants. I growl or grunt or maybe swear a few times. “You have no idea,” she says, her words dripping with seduction, “how much I’ve fantasized about finally touching you.”

“Tell me.”

“Since the first time you stripped at the pond, any time I’ve touched myself it’s been to thoughts of you.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I thrust upward, the two of us grinding mercilessly. I want her clothes off. Our clothes off. I’m not sure I have the patience, and it’s cold outside. “I’m passing a new bylaw on our friend hug.” I grip her hips and hold her down. “It includes dry humping until completion.”

Maggie freezes. Abject fear passes over her face. “Shit.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

She moves, scrambling off me, eyes wide and worried.

For the record, I am not okay. The last time Maggie and I got frisky, it ended with a similar expression of fear on her face as she gathered her clothes and ran away from me.

There will be no repeats.

The second we’re on our feet, she starts hurrying toward her Jeep. I jog ahead and block her way, gripping her arms. “What just happened?”

“I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“My meeting. I left work early to look for you, and I have a presentation tomorrow. A really important one for my next event, and I asked my coworker Stacey to meet me at my place to go over everything, including a bylaw hiccup, and I totally forgot.”

“Okay.” I rub my hands up and down her arms. “Call her and apologize. Explain that it’s my fault. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“That’s just it. It isn’t your fault.” She’s heaving now, her tone getting louder, angrier. “I got too focused on you and carried away and totally fucked this up, and I’m on thin ice at work. If this next event doesn’t go well, I could get fired. So no, it’s not your fault. It’s mine for being thoughtless and reckless and irresponsible.”

She resumes her fierce scowl, but there’s devastation under her anger, and I don’t fully understand why she’s this upset. I get being frustrated, kicking yourself for forgetting a meeting, but she’s verging on breaking into tears.

“Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need right now.”

Her wild eyes lock on mine, a whirlwind of emotions behind them I can’t begin to decipher. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

She pulls out of my grip and runs to her Jeep. She’s inside it in seconds, driving away, leaving me staring after her in a dusty cloud of gloom, wondering what the hell just happened.

chapter twenty

Some people approach conflict head on. They take a bull-rider approach, strapping themselves to the issue, shouting reprimands or challenging questions to provoke a response, hoping they don’t get thrown by the replies. Some people never get in the ring, choosing flight over an angry bull bucking them off. I’m the rodeo clown who knows there’s a problem but chooses to dance around, waving my hands, acting a fool, intent on saving the rider over myself.

Instead of calling Maggie this morning, asking to meet and talk about last night, or telling her I won’t let her push me away, I keep my text light.

Me: What can I bring to your sister’s birthday party tonight?

I have no intention of ignoring Maggie’s “I don’t think I can do this” brush-off, but there’s no shortcut to understanding her. For whatever reason, earning her trust will take more time and patience. I need to buy myself that time. After last night’s more than friendly “friend hug” burned me up, I’m more committed than ever to painting my face and flailing around like the rodeo clown I am. Anything so she can escape her demons long enough to share them with me. Hopefully I don’t get charged by her inner bull in the process.

She doesn’t reply to my text right away. Today’s a big day for her at work, so I don’t take it personally. No reply is better than a quick You’re no longer invited tonight.

I deal with an expected angry call from Des and a group text from my brothers. I put them off by replying: Yes, I met with Dad. I’d rather discuss it when we’re all together.

My edginess from that awful meeting persists, the closure I expected still dancing out of reach. My best guess is I’m stressed about showing my family Dad’s guilt money. Or maybe “blood money” is a better term. Over $250,000 at this point, with more to come. The idea of any of us using it pisses me off, but it’s not my call to make. Unfortunately, the account is in my name, which means I’ll be the one doling it out as needed. Tied forever to my father’s withered heart. So, yeah. I’m dreading telling my family about the meeting and dealing with the cash.