Page 9 of Crazy Imperfect Hearts

It’s laughable, though, how completely opposite we are. I stare at our reflection in the antique mirror on the wall. Lucas is wearing khakis and a light-blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. My guess is he was even wearing a tie earlier. It’s a rare occasion that I see him in anything but business attire. Jeans sometimes, but almost always a button-down shirt. And more often than not, a suit.

My insides get all squirmy thinking of what lies under his shirt. But with the way he’s looking at me, I realize how nervous I am at the idea of what I think is about to happen.

This is Lucas Montana. He’s been engaged four times. He may be five years younger than me, but I’m guessing he has a lot more experience. And I’m positive he hasn’t had a two-year dry spell.

“Hurry,” he says, looking at the time, seeming to forget all about the question he asked me. “We only have three minutes left.”

Right. My birthday.“This way,” I say, leading him to the door that goes up to my apartment.

He races to the top, tripping halfway up and almost face-planting into the stairs. Sitting on the step, he braces himself with one hand as he slowly lists to the side. “Shit. I might be a little drunk.”

I giggle. “You think?”

He looks up at me. “You have a nice laugh.”

Joey meows loudly from the other side of the door. He hears me coming and is getting impatient.

“What the hell was that?” Lucas asks, looking around the stairwell.

I hold out a hand. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Joey.”

The moment I’m through the door at the top of the stairs, Joey winds between my feet, rubbing against my calves. I reach down and pick him up, kissing him on his head.

“Hey, little…fuck!”Lucas withdraws his hand quickly as Joey takes a swipe at him with his claws.

“Joey,” I admonish, putting him down before he scurries off to hide. I turn to Lucas. “I’m sorry about that. He’s usually very friendly.”

Lucas glances around. “He’s not gonna like, pounce on me, is he?”

I laugh. “Joey? No. He’s the sweetest thing, I assure you.”

“Sweet. Yeah.”

“Really, he is.” I step into the kitchen and open my small liquor cabinet. “Pick your poison.”

True to his word, he doesn’t say anything about my collection of cheap booze. “It’s your birthday. You pick.”

I get two shot glasses from my small stack, and, just to egg him on, I fill them with strawberry vodka.

“Geez, woman. You drink like you dress.”

Pushing his shot glass against his chest, I ask, “And how is that exactly?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Different.”

“Different good, or different bad?”

“I’m going to plead the fifth on that one and just toast your birthday.” He raises his glass and checks the time. “We just made it under the wire. To you, Regan. Happy birthday.”

I clink my glass to his and we down our shots.

Wiping his lips, he does his best to hide the pucker of displeasure. I know he’s accustomed to high-end liquor and finewine, so I cut him a break. But I still tease him by refilling our glasses.

He takes both shot glasses from me, still full, and sets them on the counter. “We both know that’s not why you invited me here.”

All at once, chills from anxiety and warmth from desire flood through me.

I don’t have to say a word. He can tell by the look in my eyes that I’m up for this. Whateverthishappens to be.

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