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“Still sounds a bit like a cult, ya gotta admit,” she teases, and I can’t help but laugh.
“And you’re still saying it wrong...club, notcult,” I over-enunciate dramatically. “We have basketball courts, so it can’t be a cult.”
Snorting at my declaration, she disbelievingly clarifies, “That’s the defining factor?”
Turning the water off and handing her a towel, I feign certainty and reassure her, “It is. You can trust me. I’m one of the leaders, so I wouldn’t lie about an important distinction like that.”
“Wanna know a life hack?” she asks, grinning so widely that I know this is a joke, not something serious. I nod, and as she dries off, she continues, “If someone tells you that you can trust them, nine out of ten times, you can’t."
I press my lips together, fighting an answering grin of my own because, to be honest, I think she’s right. But she’s not done dropping a dose of her brand of wisdom on me, and I can’t wait to hear the rest.
“If they say they’re a good guy?Ehnt!Red flag. Nice guy? Totally gonna stalk you. Smart? Probably hasn’t read a book since elementary school. Rich? Maxed credit cards and a credit score under five hundred. Tough? Total pussy who calls his Mommy when he has a cold. Honest? He lies so much, he doesn’t even know what the truth is anymore.”
She shrugs at the harsh judgments like they’re no big deal, but I just learned a hell of a lot about Samantha Redding and what it takes to get through her walls. She might be half-joking, but that means she’s also half-serious and those things are what she really thinks.
“So what I’m hearing is that I should tell you that I’m needy, messy, broke, jobless, stupid, and...” I pause, acting like I’m searching my memory, and then finish, “an asshole to have a chance with you?”
Her grin is bittersweet, and I wonder what stories she has in her past. “Unfortunately, once upon a time, yeah. Exactly that. Skinny jean wearing, tatted up bad boy, especially if you’ve got a bit of a stoner vibe? Step right up!” Lighter, she adds, “But I’m in my ‘manifesting myself’ phase, so I’m not even looking for someone right now.”
It’s like she’s reminding me that this is just sex. Nothing more, nothing less. But that irritates me on a deep level I’m not willing to examine right now, because if we’re nothing more than a hook-up, then why does the idea of some ‘stoner guy’ in her past make me want to hunt him down?
I’m not the casual sex type, usually. I’ve had a handful of relationships over the years, all of which ended when the woman, who swore she was fine with the amount of time I dedicate to my work, became significantly less fine with it. But I’ve had some relationships that were based on sexual compatibility too. Women I’ve dated solely because we scratched each other’s itches and didn’t want or need more than that.
I could see Samantha and me falling into that category, especially given she’s discovering itches I didn’t even know I had.
“Do you use your own products?” I blurt as I hand her one of my T-shirts to put on and grab a pair of boxers for myself. The question is a bit out of nowhere, more to do with the tract my thinking was on, not our conversation, but Samantha smirks evilly, rolling with it.
“Why? You afraid you didn’t do a good job? Or you wanna watch?”
She looks fucking fantastic in my shirt, long legs sticking out, bare breasts pressed to the thin fabric, and I know her pussy is bare underneath too. Somehow, I find the strength to lead her past my bed and into the kitchen, immediately pulling ingredients out of the fridge for the promised omelet as she sits at the island.
“Watch. Participate. Whatever,” I answer, going back to my question. “I’m curious.”
“Pervert,” she accuses, pointing at me with a damning finger, but her eyebrow is quirked up teasingly. “I like it.”
“Sales 101, know your product inside and out. Especially given you have a product you can have first-hand knowledge about. It seems like that’d be helpful.”
“Great, so what I’m hearing is you’re volunteering to be my testing assistant and occasional test subject for the male-oriented devices.” She acts like she’s writing it down in an invisible notebook. “I’ll have my people call your people. By the way, I don’t have people. I’m it, a one-woman show.”
And what a show she is.
A few minutes later, after some quick chopping, swirling, whisking, and flipping, I set two omelets down, and she gasps. “This looks delicious! Definitely better than what I was gonna have tonight.”
“Which was?”
“Whatever frozen dinner is on the top of the stack. Microwave four minutes, and voila, dinner is served.” I cringe, thinking that sounds awful, but she bumps my shoulder for the obvious judgment. “It’s protein and veggies in a convenient package, thank you. Not all of us have fridges recently stocked with fresh spinach. Some of us have that week-old bag that’s already turned to brown sludge and glares at us in disappointment every time we open the door to grab a two-a.m. desperation cheese stick.”
I make a mental note to add cheese sticks to my grocery list. Just in case.
I’ve only eaten a few bites when I hear a strange noise coming from the living room. “Excuse me,” I say, setting my fork down to go investigate. I find my phone going nuts on the coffee table with an alert from the club’s alarm system.
“Dammit,” I grumble, frustrated at the interruption but also worried about the alarm. It’s new, one of our recent renovation updates. So odds are, this is a false alarm. But I have to check it out. “I gotta go to the club. Sorry. But I can drop you at home on the way?”
Samantha’s eyes narrow, and she hops up from the stool, forgetting about her hurt knee. She hisses, shifting her weight to her good leg, and I automatically reach for her to keep her from hitting the floor.
“You good?”
“Hell no, I’m great because I’m going with you to see what this place is all about.” She’s wiggling her knee back and forth and seems to be doing better already because she reaches over the couch for her jeans. “Unless its ‘no girls allowed’? Which, to be clear, issolate-1900s and not acceptable today.”
