Page 2 of Mixed Motives

I let my arm drop to my side, and I study the geometric-pattern sisal doormat that sits on the burnt-orange Saltillo tiles.

Okay, I really need to get out of my head and either execute the excellent plot I concocted in the shower thirty minutes ago … or leave.

Leaving sounds perfect, actually. Even though I’m disgusted at my ex for being awful and at myself for being a wuss, I can’t do this.

I’m turning around to retreat to my car when the telltale creak of a door opening makes my feet feel like they’re stuck in wet clay. Of course I’ve been caught. I hold my hands up like a scarecrow. Or a criminal.

A low, sexy male voice says, “Henry? Is that you?”

I grit my teeth, try not to flinch, and rearrange my face to seem relaxed. Might as well continue with my original plan. Everything else in my life has gone wrong, so what the hell? What do I have to lose?

“Hey. Yeah,” I say slowly as I face the door again, trying to look casual with my bare chest on display. It’s showtime. “So. Hi.”

Dropping my arms, I come face-to-face with Keane Fitzpatrick, who happens to be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in real life. And by real life, I’m including all facets of the internet, all movies I’ve ever seen, and the airbrushed perfection of every glossy magazine.

In other words, ever. He’s the hottest man ever. Six foot four, with jet-black hair and sapphire-blue eyes, built like he could tear apart logs with his bare hands. Bulging biceps. Inverted-triangle torso. All of it. He’d be a cartoon character of the Handsome Leading Man, except …

Except he’s real. And he’s standing right in front of me.

I know the fact that I’ve had a crush on him forever is wicked, but he’s always been so friendly to me. It’s hard not to notice someone who is both gorgeous and kind, even if they were off-limits. But now that the barrier has been removed, I’m taking my chance.

I mean, I’m getting even. That’s it.

Keane’s eyes take in what I’m wearing—or what I’m not wearing—then cycle through confusion, amusement, and, if I’m not mistaken, heat, until they settle on concern.

“Are you okay?” A crease appears in Keane’s brow as his dark eyebrows knit together. His thick hair shines in the cool winter light. It’s cut short but longish, if that makes any sense. Like, it’s not down to his shoulders or anything, but it’s tousled and you could wrap a lock of it around a finger. If you were that lucky. When I don’t respond—because no, I’m not okay; I make a ragey anime character look like a meditating angel—he asks, “Do you need something?”

Now that you ask, I could use a time machine to rewind to thirty-two minutes ago so I could formulate a different plan.

No! I argue with myself. Smile at him. Stick your hip out. Say it.

Seduce him!

All I say is, “Um. Do you mind if I come in?” Really, Henry? That’s your line? For fuck’s sake. I hide my wince.

“No, not at all. Please do.” He steps aside, and his dark gray argyle socks catch my eye. Because of course he has on interesting socks while at home. Keane wouldn’t be wearing old sweats and a T-shirt with a stain on it. No, he’s in a pair of flat-front charcoal gray slacks and a black dress shirt with the top three buttons undone. He looks like casual elegance, because he is, while I’m clomping in wearing combat boots.

He and I go together like Thin Mints and orange juice.

When I pass by him, I catch a whiff of his scent. Only a hint; it’s not overpowering. I’m not sure what it is, since I can’t tell my bergamot from my neroli. He just smells good. Clean. Manly.

Ugh. This was such a bad idea. He’s so entirely out of my league.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, looking up at him as he closes the door behind us. “You were probably working.”

He shrugs, then gives me a genuine smile that makes my heart ratchet up to more beats per minute than are strictly necessary for proper circulatory functioning. “I don’t mind being interrupted. You’re more important. Come in, have a seat. Let me get you a drink. Then you can tell me what’s going on.”

Keane shows me into the living room, then strides to the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water, ice clinking when he passes one to me as if I’m some normal guest and not a wannabe rent boy. All his furniture is in the gorgeous Craftsman style, which goes well with his vintage home. He settles in a morris chair, the picture of repose as he puts one ankle on his opposite knee.

Meanwhile, I sit gingerly on the most comfortable couch that has ever existed in all of eternity, feeling like I’m exposing way too much skin, especially when my shorts ride up even more than when I was standing.

The couch is mission-style, dark brown leather with wood trim, and, honestly, couches this pretty should not be comfortable, but that’s how Keane’s house is. Because it matches him, and he’s perfect. It even has a cozy gray throw blanket. I want to curl up here with a cup of tea and stay for hours, but I can’t. All I say is “Thanks” as I take a grateful sip.

Then I try to adjust the way I’m sitting so I look more tempting. Only problem is, I’m not sure how to do that, since I’m sitting on my best feature. It’s not like I can bend over the arm of the couch and shake my baby cakes at him.

Keane thinks I’m hot. Right? All those times helping him with the dishes, he was checking me out. Wasn’t he? I didn’t misread this. Did I?

As far as I know, he’s available. The story goes that Keane realized he was bisexual in college but ended up marrying a woman. They divorced ten years ago.

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