The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

“I guess not.” I put my hands in my pockets. “Would you rather talk about the weather?”

Her shoulders lower just a bit. “Reggie. He works downtown. Finance.”

“That still your type? Suits?”

“I don’t know if I have a type anymore. I’ve considered becoming a lesbian, but . . .”

I roll my lips together and smile. She’d look good curled around another woman. Or around me. And since I know where she’s headed with this, I’d love nothing more than for her to finish her sentence. “But?”

She looks me in the eye. “But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’d miss . . .”

I egg her on. “You’d miss . . .?”

“A man,” she says quickly. “The way it feels to be touched by a man.”

It takes great effort to hold her gaze and not let my eyes travel down. Her skirt is tight, and I’d like to peel it away and see what’s underneath. No doubt her ass is firm and round. My mind flashes to later, when her legs will be all mine—the insides of her thighs, the backs of her knees, the arches of her feet. I clear my throat. “Hot as it would be, I’m glad you aren’t a lesbian.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“I have nothing against lesbians,” I say, raising the corner of my mouth. “Personally, I’m a fan.”

A hint of a smile crosses her lips. “I mean, you’ve made it clear I’m not your type. Was your ex the ‘biker chick’ you referred to earlier?”

I glance down. It’s been nearly four years, so I can finally think about Shana without getting too worked up. Still, she’s far from my favorite topic. “Yeah.”

“That’s it?” Amelia asks. “Yeah? You’re the one who brought exes up.”

Her eyes sparkle. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and that I’d rather not talk about it. But there’s something appealing about the fact that Amelia knows nothing about me or Shana, unlike everyone else in my life. And if we’re only spending one night together, what’s the harm in making conversation? I blow out a sigh. “Even though she hurt me, I generally stick to that type of girl. Present company excluded.”

She tilts her head. “Why me then?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” I say with a wink. I like that I can tease her without worrying how she’ll react. To offend her, she’d have to care what I think, and she clearly doesn’t.

She half-smirks. “What’s her name?”

“Shana.”

“Is she the mother of the girl with you earlier?”

“You mean my daughter? Yeah.” I laugh. She’s clearly uncomfortable with me having a kid. We take a few steps forward, nearing the counter. “Shana walked half a mile to my garage because of an empty tank, so I drove her back to her car, filled her up, and the rest is history. We were dating a few weeks when she got pregnant. Around Bell’s third birthday, Shana left. The end.”

Amelia jerks her head toward me. “The end? That’s it?”

I look forward. I may have learned to accept how Shana left, but the pity in people’s eyes never gets any easier to swallow. “It was almost four years ago. We get on fine without her. Better, even.”

“I can understand why you don’t date. I wouldn’t either.” She looks up at me. Her eyes are slightly too big for her face, and she looks deceivingly innocent. “Will you ever marry again?”

“Doubt it. You?”

“Never.”

The abruptness of her answer shouldn’t surprise me, but I cock my head. “Just like that? What if you fall in love?”

“I won’t if I can help it.”

I open my mouth to tell her that’s a shame—even though she’s given me nothing but shit, there are undoubtedly men out there who’d happily do the bidding of a sharp-witted, gorgeous blonde. But that’d make me a hypocrite. I’d be a fool to fall in love after the way I was burned, and I sure as hell don’t plan on being a fool twice. “I think you and I are going to make great friends,” I say.

“If we’re going to eat pizza, have sex, and then get back to our own lives, then you might be my best friend in the world.”

I grin. “Does this mean you’ll have a slice?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Next,” a man behind the counter calls. We step up.

Before I can open my mouth, Amelia orders. “I’ll have a salad, no cheese, dressing on the side.”

“All we got is a side salad,” the man says, punching the register. “Not exactly our specialty, though.”

“That’s fine. I’m not that hungry.” She thumps her magazines, folders, thermos and package on the counter to rifle through one of her bags.

“I’ve got this,” I tell her.

She ignores me, handing a five-dollar bill to the cashier.

I don’t mind playing the boyfriend for a night, because I know this isn’t real, but she seems to want to keep things separate. If there weren’t a long line behind us, I’d argue with her.

“I’ll take two slices of the Meat Lover’s,” I say, “and one cheese. You can put the cheese from her salad on that.”

Amelia gapes at me. “Three slices? With extra cheese? They’re the size of your head.”

“Lay off.” I rub my stomach. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“It’s six o’clock.”

I shrug and pay for my pizza. She picks up all her things again, balancing the plastic salad container on top. Each of my slices is the size of the paper plate it’s on, so I stack them. Since our hands are ridiculously full, I grab a plastic bag from the cashier.

“You have too much shit.” I put my food on the seat of a chained-up bicycle and toss her thermos in the bag along with her divorce papers, magazines, the package, and anything else I can fit. “What do you need all this for?”

“It’s work.”

I hook the bag on my elbow and get my plates. “Damn. I forgot to order a drink.”

“I’m not waiting in line again.”

“These places charge double what a bodega does anyway. Let’s walk.”

As we head down the block, I take an enormous bite of the first slice, chewing as Amelia picks out a few rogue pieces of feta. Finally, she drizzles dressing on the lettuce and eats a forkful.

“That’s disgusting,” I say.

She widens her eyes. “Salad? Do you have any idea how many calories are in one of those slices, let alone three?”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Hardly. You must find ways to burn it off.”

“I do,” I say, leaning toward her a little. “And I love to get creative about it.”

I’m trying to get her to blush again, but to her credit, she doesn’t. “So do I,” she says. “I’ve been doing yoga for years, but sometimes nothing hits the spot like a few hours of straight-up, hardcore, sweaty cardio.”

I don’t know where to start with that. First, I’m picturing Amelia in naked downward dog, the only yoga position I know. She’s not even bent over a second before I’m coming up behind her to cash in on that sweaty, hardcore cardio. I forget all about my pizza, and a slice slides over the edge. I fumble, barely catching it before it hits the ground.

Amelia doesn’t even pretend to hide her laugh. “Smooth.”

Christ, I need to get this woman in bed STAT. I can’t decide if I want her to be this sassy between the sheets, or if I want her t

o drop the façade and submit. A little of both. This might be an all-nighter. “I hope you don’t have an early morning planned,” I say.

“I might, but it won’t affect tonight.”

God. Damn. I’m dangerously close to skipping ahead and booking us the nearest hotel. Luckily, we reach a bodega before I can Google where that might be. I run inside to grab beer and, with a bolt of lightning genius, condoms, just in case she doesn’t have any. I stick two beers under my arm and return to Amelia, who’s still picking at her salad. I can see by her figure she was telling the truth about yoga. She’s thin and fit, but despite her ample breasts and ass, she could use some more meat on her bones. I snatch the salad from her hands.

“Hey,” she squeals, leaping toward me.

I toss it in a nearby trashcan. “That was fine as an appetizer, but now you need to eat. I offer her the cheese slice from the bottom of my pizza tower. “Here.”

“That’s yours.”

“I ordered it for you.”

“But I told you—”

“You don’t eat carbs, I know. Can you make an exception for me? I got you a beer too.”

“You’re insane,” she says. “I haven’t had beer since college. I only drink whisky.”

“Whisky?” My pants get tight with a single word. “Let me get this straight . . . you don’t get clingy, you’re a yoga goddess, and you exclusively drink whisky? You just keep getting hotter.”

“And I intend to stay that way.” She takes a step back, raising her palms. “Thanks but no thanks.”

She’s fun to mess with, but it hits me that she might really take her diet too seriously. “Amelia, come on. I ordered this for you, and I’d like you to eat it.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t like pizza.”

“I don’t believe that. It’s fucking cheese and bread. Nobody on this planet doesn’t like cheese and bread.”

“Then I must be from another planet.”

“I’m beginning to think you are.” I shove it toward her. “Just take a bite. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Listen . . .” She pauses with her mouth open. A flush creeps up her chest to her neck, and it takes me a moment to realize why.

“You don’t remember my name,” I say.