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"Haveyoueverbeen in love?”
Staring at the sheet of rain sliding down my windshield, I bite back a sigh. This woman has been asking me stupid questions all night.
What would you choose as your last meal if you were on death row?
If you were a pizza topping, what would you be?
Would you rather be a strawberry with human thoughts, or a human with strawberry thoughts?
Right now, I’d rather be a human who is anywhere but my own car. But of course, I offer a small smile and shake my head. “Afraid not, Cleo.”
I catch the spark of excitement in her eyes before I turn my attention back to the road. Wrong answer.
The glow of her cellphone reflects off her face, and the sound of her frantic typing cuts just above the hum of the eighties Christmas song on the radio. No doubt she’s updating the group chat with the latest installment about our date.
Sometimes I wonder if it’d just be easier to do what every other man in my family does—fuck and chuck without mercy. But the idea of plunging my cock into a woman whose last name I can’t remember feels…uncivilized. It’s something zoo animals and my cousins do, not real men.
No, I prefer to torture myself with wining and dining a woman before taking her to bed, even though, more often than not, I couldn’t give two flying shits about the conversation floating over the dinner table.
Angelo thinks by drawing out the run-up to getting my dick wet I’m giving women false hope that it’ll turn into something more. I don’t agree; I’ll never take a wife, and I’m very transparent about my intentions from the jump.
Every woman I take out gets the same fair warning. They’ll get one candle-lit night, where I’ll play their Prince Charming and suffer through their vapid monologues with an intrigued smile. Then, after they sweat against my silk sheets and moan ill intentions in my ear, they’ll never hear from me again.
One night never turns into two. Not in a million years. But still, this hard-and-fast rule seems more like a challenge than a boundary for most women—this one in my passenger seat included.
I slow the car to a stop outside Cleo’s walk-up on Main Street and kill the engine. In the silence, the thunder rolling over the roof of my car sounds even louder.
“Thank you for a delightful evening,” I say dryly.
Anticipation crackles and pops off my date’s Little Black Dress. My gaze slides down to her hands curling around the hem of it. I stifle another sigh.
Usually, here’s where I’d lean my forearm against her headrest. Slide my hand up her thigh as I murmur something about being invited up for coffee against her lips. But for some odd reason, the thought of doing that tonight fills me with dread.
Maybe it’s because I’m wiped out from a week of bad business, or maybe it’s because I really don’t care what she’s got going on underneath that dress.
Under her wide, watchful eyes, I drag a palm over my mouth and drop my head against my seat. Maybe I just need to switch up the type of women I date. For nine years, I’ve been seeking out cookie-cutter brunettes that I probably couldn’t pick out of a police line-up if you held a gun to my head. But I choose them because they aren’t my type. They are easy to fuck and forget about. If I actually chose my type, well…that’d be dangerous.
The next lightning bolt brings a flash of red hair and lace lingerie with it.
Jesus. Suddenly feeling hot under the collar, I shove open the door and step out into the rain. As I round the back of the car, Blake catches my eye through the windshield of the armored sedan parked behind me. He winks, then creates a hole with one hand and slides his finger in and out of it. Ah, the universal sign for getting laid.
I’d laugh if it’d come from Griffin or one of my other men, but this dick is already on thin ice after the whole Benny fiasco. I open the passenger door for my date, and her breathing stills as I lean over her, but I pretend not to notice.
I’m only reaching for an umbrella.
I hold out my hand and force another smile. “Allow me.”
Shielded from the storm, we take the five steps to her front door in silence.
“Well,” she whispers, staring up at me like an anxious deer in headlights. “This is me. Unless, uh…you know, you want to come up for coffee, or something?”
It’s already three a.m.—seriously, this woman wouldn’t stop with the dumb questions—and I’d be lying if I said the idea of railing her doggy-style on her polyester sheets while staring at the floral-feature wall behind her headboard turned me on.
I shift my focus over her head and across the road. Annoyingly, I know the real reason I don’t want to go upstairs, and it’s got nothing to do with business or being bored of brunettes. But that reason is so ridiculous, I almost want to go inside to prove to myself that it’s not real.
Another zap of lightning illuminates Main Street. It bounces off shiny surfaces, like the puddles in the road, shop windows, and the glass of the large phone booth opposite. A flash of red—real this time—catches my eye, and my gaze narrows on it.
Surely not.
