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“Fuck off,” I mutter, forgetting all about Belle’s damn voice in my head and her stupid articles.
Eric chuckles again, and I roll my eyes, turning to head back up the stairs and get away from this annoying man who is confusing the hell out of my body. He quickly reaches out and wraps his hand around my upper arm, stopping me from leaving.
“Got any plans today, neighbor? I was thinking of taking my yacht out for a little while. Wondered if maybe you’d like to come along.”
“As tempting as it sounds to be out in the middle of the water with you, miles away from shore with no way to escape, I have to go to a . . . yoga class,” I tell him, trying not to choke on the word yoga.
Much to my dismay, one of the suggestions in a few of the articles Belle sent me about gaining self-confidence was to exercise and be Zen, whatever the fuck that means. She assured me that I in no way needed to exercise and decided to latch on to the Zen part of that nonsense instead. Cindy got on board with that horseshit as soon as she heard it and they both bought me a pass to a yoga class today.
“Excellent idea. I’ve never done yoga, and I’ve always wanted to. I’ll go with you,” Eric says with a smile.
I jerk my arm out of his hold and shake my head. There is no way I can even attempt to be Zen with him on a yoga mat right next to me, bending and flexing his muscles.
“Nope. No way. It’s bad enough my friends are forcing me to do this shit, I don’t need you there breaking my concentration with . . . all of that,” I complain, swiping my hand up and down in the air in his general direction.
As soon as the words leave my mouth and Eric’s smile grows even bigger, I realize what I’ve just done.
“And by that I obviously mean the annoying annoyance of your annoying mouth that annoys me,” I quickly ramble, trying to backpedal and sounding like a complete idiot who doesn’t know how words work.
“Nice try, princess. It’s too late. I already know you want me, so stop fighting it. Also, since I know you don’t like the idea of living on my yacht for free, consider this your first month’s rent. I’ll drive. Just give me a minute to grab a shirt and put on some tennis shoes.”
He turns away from me, quickly walks across the living room, and disappears down a hallway. The smart thing to do would be to run as fast as possible up the steps, get in my car, and get out of here before he comes back.
Instead, I stay right where I am as Derrick Alfredo pauses in the middle of licking his own ass on the couch to look up at me, the expression on his devil face clearly saying, “Jesus, you’re an idiot.”
Chapter 9: Princess Sassy Pants
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Eric asks skeptically when he gets to the end of the long, winding dirt driveway and stops his SUV.
Both of us lean forward to stare out the front windshield at the sprawling white farmhouse a few hundred yards in front of us.
Glancing down at my phone, I double check the text Cindy sent me yesterday with the address to the yoga class, and then look up at the GPS on Eric’s dashboard screen.
“Yep, this is it. Looks like Farmer Ted’s Yoga Emporium is a bustling place,” I snort, craning my neck to look out all of the windows at all the cars parked in the grass on either side of the driveway.
“I really hope we don’t have to milk any cows as part of our entrance fee,” Eric mutters as he puts the SUV in reverse, flings his arm over the back of my seat and turns his head to back into an open spot between two cars.
I try not to openly stare at him, but it’s impossible. The position of his arm pushed the sleeve of his shirt up, giving me a nice view of his bicep, which is tensed as he holds the back of my seat while he maneuvers the car. This guy has straight up arm porn from his shoulder to his wrist, and I am weak. So, so weak for arm porn. He doesn’t have crazy, huge, gym rat arms that are so big he can’t wipe his own ass. He’s just got perfect muscle definition that tells me he works out, but isn’t a freak of nature about it.
“Wow, impressive,” Eric states.
“Yes, indeed,” I sigh, realizing as soon as I make that ridiculously, breathy noise that we’re not talking about the same thing.
Jesus, what is wrong with me?
