Page 33 of Contingently Yours
I was just trying to get him to admit…
What was I trying to get him to admit?
Uh…his obvious attraction to my hand and my mouth.
Yeah. That was it. Fucking jerk, waking me up before I was ready to function.
Releasing the fleshy vein statue, I retrieve my hand, wiping the Lucas fluids on the sheet as I draw back. Gross, but there’s always a price to pay for victory. That was the point, right?
Sitting up, I know I need to bring us back to reality, so I do the only thing I can think of. I slap him on the ass. It jiggles just like his face does.
“Good!” I chirp, bounding out of bed. “Glad to see you’re finally getting with the program.”
I rush to the bathroom without looking back. I don’t need to see that stupid, confused face he gets. His vein statue is his problem to figure out. It’s not my fault that I’m irresistible.
Something makes my boxers shift just as I reach the bathroom door. Glancing down, my thickened cock is tenting thefabric in the direction I need to go. I…grew myownstatue. What the fuck is that about?
CHAPTER 12
Lucas
Getting out of theUberoutside of the Duxbury Bakery, my stomach shouldn’t feel like something is fluttering inside of it. I’ve had three days to prepare myself mentally for facing Andrew again. I told myself over and over to forget about that last morning in the Isles. That it meant nothing. That it was just him screwing with me again. The fact he acted like nothing happened the entire trip to Boston and even after we landed proves that it certainly meant nothing to him. He went and bought another Christmas ornament at the airport and then strolled on his merry way toward the car rental counter without so much as a backward glance at me.
However, seeing him through the window of the bakery now, biting into a croissant while he stares down at his phone, I’m finding it difficult to believe it meant nothing to me. Since when have I found the cut of his jaw and his high cheekbones alluring? Try as I might to have absorbed myself in prepping things for our showings down in Harlow’s Landing the past few days, I found myself disturbingly distracted. Especially at night. I’ve slept alone for the last four years. It shouldn’t have been so difficult to fall asleep without his obnoxious presence next to me in bed. Without his heat. His clean scent. His peaceful stream of breath. And without waking up to his wandering hand on my…
“Stop it,” I scold myself.
Shaking my head, I wheel my suitcase toward the bakery door and inhale a deep breath. If I can’t stop thinking about that morning or how I replayed an alternate extended version of it in my head the last few nights, he’ll see right through me. I can act as indifferent and callous as him.
I can.
I should.
I shouldn’tbeaffected by Andrew Broadhouse. In any way. I don’t know why my body is having such a difficult time getting that message, but I’m determined to make sure it does. I mean, he’s not even into me. Even if he does have one or two redeeming qualities, he’s not into me. So, that’s that. Besides, I can do better than a person whose only redeeming qualities are their command of sales and their good looks.
As I approach the table, I try to convince myself that he isn’t even all that good-looking. What do I know about whether men are good-looking? Right? Except when those mischievous green eyes glance up at me, my breath catches in my throat. A lock of his sandy hair falls over the sun-kissed skin of his forehead. He brings his coffee cup to his bow-shaped mouth, the hint of a smirk at its corner that registers as one word in my addled brain—sexy.
Crap. I’m failing at this already. Failing and clearly have lost my mind.
Heissexy. For some unearthly reason, he is. No wonder women fall at his feet, and the Hepperlys have seemed charmed by him since day one. He’s just got this charisma about him that makes you stupid in light of his bitchiness and immaturity.
“Wondered if you’d ever show up,” he calls, averting his gaze back to his phone like he couldn’t care less that I’ve arrived.
It shouldn’t hurt. Why does it hurt?
It was just half a hand job, not a declaration of love. I’m too old-fashioned. The girls are always telling me that. Intimacymeans something to me, I guess, even if I never intended on being intimate with him.
“I’m ten minutes early,” I say without fanfare, just stating a fact, and take the seat opposite him.
There are two large pastry boxes stacked on the table. I can only guess they’re either to pacify his high metabolism during our upcoming stay on Clark’s Island, or he was thoughtful enough to acquire them for me and our clients. I really hate when I notice admirable things he does. I can’t count how many times he’s opened a door for me, which is completely mind-blowing after once getting stuck in one with him.
Reaching out, he nudges them toward me, again without eye contact. “Here. Eat something. They’re heart-healthy and filling.”
I’m sure that was a dig at my preference for granola bars, but my stupid heart skips a beat like a wistful teen at the thought of him remembering something I said. That’s the thing that’s so confusing. For someone who acts like he hates me so much, he actually pays a lot of attention to what I do and say.
As the box slides, I notice a smaller one beside it come into view. The front of it is clear, revealing a small ceramic croissant inside with a gold string attached to the top of it. The words Duxbury Bakery are inscribed over the golden finish.
“What’s the deal with all the Christmas ornaments?” I ask.
