Page 8 of Mine to Love

Reese is the polar opposite of her best friend. Where Emerson is sweet and humble, Reese is a bit crass and not quiet about what she wants. From the heat in her eyes and the climb of her foot to the inside of my thigh, I’ll bet my Audi A5 Cabriolet she’s on the hunt for a little sexual release.

Too bad she isn’t my type. I shouldn’t be turned on by her forwardness. The women who assert themselves on me in hotel bars or fancy restaurants are either gold diggers, married and looking for a little fun on the side, or an absolute basket case.

My track record with women isn’t the greatest. I don’t have a lot of time to date or get to know a woman, and it’s usually too late, after I’ve zipped up, when I learn the woman is more interested in my portfolio than getting to know me.

To be fair, the feeling is usually mutual.

It’s my own fault for not being more thorough with my research. I have a spreadsheet for everything else; maybe I should make one for women.

I pop off the cap for Reese, take a sip, and hand it back. Her brow lifts in a flirty quirk. It’s definitely the alcohol talking.

With Emerson and Holden busy in the kitchen, I sit back and let Reese lead the show. She’s entertaining, that’s for sure. And funny. And sexy. A change of pace for me.

I don’t have time to mess with someone like Reese. Free of responsibility. Careless in her decision making. Not goal or detail oriented. Too much of a free spirit.

“If you’re ready, we can give you a ride home,” Emerson says, coming up behind me and placing her hands on Reese’s shoulders. “Holden will follow in his car.”

The sly smile leaves her face, and she drops her foot from my crotch.

“I’ll take her home,” I offer without thinking.

Reese’s eyebrows shoot up, and that flirty sparkle is back. My pants tighten, and I struggle at not adjusting myself in front of an audience.

“You sure?” Emerson asks.

Reese licks her bottom lip, and her foot slips between the cuff of my pants and ankle.

“Yeah.”

“Em and I can drop your car off in the morning. She’ll bring me to the shop on her way to work. I’ll bring the Bronco home.”

“That works. You okay with that, Reese?” Emerson gives Reese’s shoulders another squeeze and lowers herself to whisper something in her ear.

Reese scoots back in her chair before reaching around to hug Emerson. “I’m okay. This is okay. Thank you for helping me tonight.”

I’m not sure what help she needed, but I don’t think it’s any of my business anyway. I wait while Reese gets up and hugs Holden and Emerson. It gives me time to squirm in my pants. Hopefully it isn’t evident how much her teasing foot has aroused me.

I untuck my shirt a little, which doesn’t give me more room in my pants. Too bad I left my suit coat in the car. Praying everyone is too distracted with goodbyes to see the bulge in my pants, I scoot back my chair and excuse myself to the bathroom.

Three splashes of cold water on my face and a few minutes away from her intoxicating eyes has eased the pressure. A little. I make it to my rental without being outed and sigh in relief.

“Where do you live?”

“Not far.” She gives me directions and turns up the radio, changing the Satellite station to music I’m not accustomed to. It sounds like a mix of the music that played in bars and clubs when I was in college.

She sways in her seat and sings along, not missing a single word.

“What do you do for fun, Logan Pierce?” Her words aren’t slurred. Sexy and sultry, yes.

I have to think about it. Fun days don’t fit on my spreadsheet. I make time for my family and always come to Acadia Falls for birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day. Those are blocked out well in advance.

Other than hanging out with my brothers, sister, and parents, there isn’t much else I do besides work.

“I work a lot,” I say, hating how boring I sound once again.

“All work and no play is definitely not the way to live life.”

Someone like Reese wouldn’t understand. She’s the kind of woman who would make a spreadsheet of fun activities and then maybe schedule work in here and there. Actually, I doubt she even knows how to make a spreadsheet. Or wants to. Spreadsheets don’t equal spontaneity, and everything about Reese screams living life in the moment.

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