“I wonder if he stole it?” I ask myself to try and throw ice-cold water on my horniness, and it helps a little. The ugly thought breaks me out of my reverie, reminding me that while he might be sexy as sin, the devil tempts in lots of ways.
Making up my mind and mostly in control of myself, I open my door, calling behind me. “Be good, boys. Mommy will be home soon.”
Outside, Connor’s heard me and is giving me a curious look. “Nut and Juice,” I explain, but his brows jump up his forehead in shock, and I hear what I just said a second too late. “My dogs. They’re white Pomeranians. Get it? Nut juice. It seemed funny at the time.”
“And now?” he asks dryly.
“It makes me smile,” I admit, “at least until I have to call the little escape artists back. Nothing like walking around the neighborhood yelling, ‘Nut Juice!’ to get some awkward looks and a reputation as the neighborhood weirdo.”
I expect him to smile or laugh because that’s some funny imagery right there. And it did happen a few times when Nut and Juice were puppies and I didn’t have them trained. But instead, he frowns. “Are you the neighborhood weirdo?”
“Uhm . . . yes?” I answer uneasily. “I mean, look around you. This might be a single woman-heavy neighborhood, but it’s about as standard operating beige as you can get. Folks get up, go to work at eight, and get back home at six for dinner and the news, maybe an evening of chauffeuring kids around if it’s their night. Some might be extra-wild and go to Zumba class at the Y, but most of the active people join the neighborhood walking group where they bitch about their office drama and comment on people’s gardening skills, or the lack thereof, as they circle the neighborhood. Me, I work at home writing romance novels, and I go days without showering if I’m in the writing groove, wear pajamas most days, get food deliveries at all times of the night, and have dogs named Nut and Juice. I’m not exactly invited to the pool parties for fun times.”
I stop, surprised at the vehemence and tinge of bitterness in my voice. It’s never bothered me until this moment, or at least I’ve pretended so well that I’ve fooled myself. But under Connor’s piercing gaze, the eyes of a man who’d be even more shunned by the neighborhood than I am, I realize that maybe it bothers me more than I admit.
“Hard worker, focused, able to prioritize, creative,” Connor says, rephrasing my self-describing words and turning them on their heads. “I’m not finding the problem.”
His reframing of the laundry list of my flaws heals something I didn’t even know was broken, bringing a smile to my face. Reflexively, I reach out and punch him lightly in the chest, making him smile a little.
“Sexy. You forgot sexy,” I brag-chastise, twisting left to right in my dress. I’m not fishing for compliments, but he’d damn well better agree.
I wasn’t sure what the dress code for ‘family dinner’ is, so I played it safe in a red circle skirt that hits mid-thigh and a slim-fitting silk blouse. I chose a matching jacket that I can leave on if it’s chilly or take off if it seems appropriate. In my heels, I’m feeling large and in charge next to Connor.
“And sexy,” he says quietly. The word comes from deep in his throat, rough and scratchy in a way that makes my skin vibrate even though he’s a solid two feet from me. But his eyes flow over me appreciatively in a way that brings my focus solidly to him, and I stop my girlish twirling, freezing in place. I get the sense that he’s being genuine and is as surprised by his admission as I am. After a too-quick moment, he growls, “We should go. Get in.”
He broke first, but instead of feeling like I won, I feel like he was able to wrench back control faster than I could, making me the loser in that battle. But I will win the war. The one for my laptop, I remind my libido. That’s what this is about.
My insides tighten, trying to argue that a little poke and play couldn’t hurt and would probably feel really good. If anything, I bet he could clean out my pipes and clear my writer’s block while leaving me feeling fully sated.
But I refuse to listen to the horny bitch and walk to the passenger side of Connor’s big truck. Putting my hand on the door handle, I pause, looking over at him with a smile. “You’re not kidnapping me, are you? We’re going to dinner with your family?”
His eyes narrow, and I wonder what about that joke slipped in a bit too deep. The kidnapping or the family dinner? Or maybe it’s that I committed him to this charade and dinner when he obviously didn’t want to go in the first place. “Get in the truck, Poppy. Or don’t. Your call.” He walks around to the driver’s side, getting in and starting the roaring engine. Fuck the gentleman act, it seems.