Page 26 of Pucking Sweet

Everything tightens in my chest as I stare at her. “Does he now?”

“Yes, he knows how to be sweet to a woman and not expect anything in return. Not everything in life is a transaction, Lukas. Not everyone is out to get you, or hurt you, or use you. I wanted to give him the granola because I had enough to share. Simple as that. Now, can we please finish our meeting? I really do have a lot to do today.”

I narrow my gaze at her. “You mean our meeting about my transactional love contracts?”

She purses those damn lips again. “Hmm, do we really want to use the word ‘love’?”

“Fine. Transactionalsexcontracts.”

“Better.”

Fuck me. How did this entire exchange go so completely off the rails? We were flirting, and that was fun. I’ve always been a heavy flirt. Hell, I could flirt with a cereal box. But I’m also selfish and emotionally closed off to an almost pathological degree.

Women can only get two things from me: sexy banter—the wittierthe better—and, if they’re lucky, an unforgettable lay. I don’t do feelings. Ever. I don’t question the motives and meanings of every word in a conversation either. When you make it a point to never be serious about anything, you never have to be taken seriously. It’s pure freedom.

So why the fuck is Poppy looking at me like that? Why does she look like she fucking cares? I swear to god, I think she might even feel sorry for me.

This can’t happen. This whole exchange was a mistake. No more flirting with Poppy St. James. I’m not out here trying to reveal my dark sadness to my goddamn PR director.

I stand, every part of me feeling coiled tight. “Don’t worry, Poppy. I never forget to use a condom, latex or legal. You can expect my first batch of signed sex contracts on Sunday night.”

I can’t let her have the last word. I don’t think I could bear it after seeing the way she lit up for Colton fucking Morrow. I escape the room as fast as I can, leaving her sitting alone under the faintly flickering fluorescent lights.

9

It’s nearly nine o’clock at night, and I’m standing outside Poppy’s front door, trying to remember how to breathe. It’s a pretty basic human function. I do it all the time without even thinking. So, why am I standing here under this ring of yellow light feeling like my lungs won’t inflate?

Oh, that’s right. Because I’m twelve years old again, suffering under the weight of a hopeless and inappropriate crush. Truly, this is embarrassing. I don’t have this problem with any other women. What can I say? I’m a consummate Leo. I like parties and clubs. I like dancing and karaoke. I like to flirt. I like to date. I like to pamper the women I’m with and get pampered in return. It’s all very cool and casual. What are the kids calling it these days? Rizz?

Yeah, I’ve got a lot of rizz.

And yet, here I stand, staring at Poppy’s front door, noting the chipping paint around her peep hole. Fuck me. I have zero fucking rizz. Not with Poppy St. James. Why else would I be holding this potted pothos plant?

Oh god, I even know what it’s called. I asked the guy at the shop. It’s a golden pothos. Low sunlight needed. Water once a week. What the fuck am I doing? I should throw this plant over the balcony and just go home.

No, you’re doing this. Lift arm, make fist, knock on door.

Fuck, I reallyamdoing it. I just knocked on her door.

Oh shit. Back up and act cool—

The door swings inward six inches, and Poppy’s there, wearing nothing but silky pink sleep shorts and a matching top with straps as thin as dental floss. Her blonde hair is plaited in two thick braids, the ends trailing down either side of her chest.

“Hey, Poppy. I—”

She puts a finger up to her lips and pulls the door open all the way, revealing that she’s holding her phone up to her ear.

“I can come back.” I barely get the words out before she snags the front of my T-shirt with her free hand, tugging me over the threshold into her apartment.

“Uh-huh,” she says into the phone, inching around me to close the door. The close proximity has her brushing up against me. I can smell the herbal scent of her shampoo, rosemary and mint. It mixes with the rich, chocolatey smell of fresh baked cookies that’s filling her apartment.

My senses don’t know what to focus on. They’re pinging around inside me like a bunch of pin balls. She steps away and that helps…and hurts. Then she’s smiling up at me in welcome and I’m slipping my slides off, leaving them next to her tiny blue running shoes. I follow her down the narrow hall into her kitchen.

“Uh-huh,” she says again, rolling her eyes at me in a knowing way. Then she lifts a hand and mimes someone yapping.

I smile down at her, and she turns away, moving over to the living room to perch on a blue ottoman. My eyes go wide as I take in the chaos of her kitchen. Baking sheets are spread across every surface in various states of cooling. I see at least three different kinds of cookies. The rest of the granola sits in a large glass jar on the counter.

Does this woman ever stop baking? When does she even find the time?

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