Page 6 of The Worst Guy Ever
“Oh, as if you can remember the name of every woman who’s been through the conveyor belt you call a bed.”
I push past him and make my way through the house to Luke’s open plan kitchen-dining-living room. A happy birthday banner hangs on one wall, the table set for what looks like an afternoon tea.
“What can I get you ladies to drink?” Rob appears behind me and leans, both hands flat on the kitchen counter like he works here. His white shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, open at the collar, and in this position he might as well be saying‘here’s your forearm porn’.
If he served me in a bar, I’d most definitely be asking if he could get off work early. Unfortunately, any chance of that happening disappeared the moment he opened his mouth. Or perhaps I should consider it a lucky escape.
Rob is one of those guys who is disgustingly hot, but he knows it, and everyone else knows it too. I see other people lap it up, his charm, his schmoozing, but I’ve got him figured out and you won’t catch me falling for any of it. I try to avoid him, but his favourite game is tormenting me, and apparently, that starts now.
“I’ll get my own. Wouldn’t want to get roofied at an eightieth birthday party.”
“Hattie!” Megan scolds from across the room, and I spin to face her.
“What?”
“That’s a terrible accusation.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and walk behind him to add my wine to Luke’s fridge. A small knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Why is it always me who ends up looking like the mean one when he’s ten times worse?
At lunch, Rob takes the seat next to me, his thigh bumping up against mine. We both look down at the same time and then catch each other’s eyes on the way back up. I scowl at him, sick of men taking up space that doesn’t belong to them. I’m not moving, and I adjust my position, pushing back against him. He pushes harder, but he has underestimated how firm my quads are. Years of kickboxing will do that for you.
“Stop doing this pulling-my-hair-because-you-secretly-fancy-me shit. This isn’t the playground and we’re not five years old.”
He leans in and whispers into my ear. “You would love it if I pulled your hair. And it’s no secret that I think you’re gorgeous.”
“Are you negging me? That bullshit doesn’t work, Rob. If I wanted to sleep with you, I’d have done it already.”
Lunch is a feast of delicious sandwiches, perfectly fluffy scones with jam and clotted cream, and an array of miniature cakes including, apparently, Granny Annie’s favourite treacle tarts.
“We used to serve this in our pub,” she tells us. “Hot with double cream. Was famous for miles around. Do you remember that, Luke?”
“I remember coming home with syrup in my hair most nights,” he laughs. If memory serves me correctly, he grew up in the pub his grandparents owned and later ran the kitchen there before they sold it.
Seriously, Kara got lucky landing herself an ex-chef, and as one of her best friends, I’m more than happy to reap the benefits. The treacle tart is borderline orgasmic.
After lunch, Kara takes Annie for a walk around the garden to talk about her plans for a vegetable plot, and everyone else tops up their drinks and follows. I live in a second story flat and can’t keep a cactus alive, so I hang back and make a start on clearing the table.
With the plates and cutlery loaded into the dishwasher, I run a sink of hot water for the glasses. It’s a welcome moment of peace and quiet, but of course, as soon as I think that I feel the heat of him behind me, hands bracketing me to the sink on either side.
“Sucked any good dicks lately?” he asks over my shoulder.
“Jesus, Rob,” Luke interrupts, passing behind us on his way to the fridge. “Give it a rest, mate.”
“Why, do you need some tips?” A swift elbow to the ribs has him bent double with a satisfying grunt. He moves to my side, leaning back against the countertop while rubbing the spot. I hope he bruises easily.
“No, just letting you know mine is always available if you’re not getting your fill.”
“I do just fine, thank you.”
“Seriously, all you need to do is ask.”
“Rob, you would beg for me before I’deverbeg for you. Like, centuries would pass before I got that desperate.”
He leans closer. “You know that’s my whole kink, right? I love getting women to beg.”
The more he goads me, the angrier I feel, and the angrier I feel the more I want him.What is wrong with me?I feel lightheaded, heat pooling in my core, nipples hardening underneath my top. I have to get away from him before my body betrays me any further, though unfortunately, being elbow deep in soapy water means storming off is not an option.
“Leave me alone.”
