Well, except for her bad-ass fiancé. She thinks Cole’s pretty irresistible. I’ve been in their apartment when they duck into their room for a private “conversation”. It’s embarrassing how much she digs his wickedness.
But I’m not one to judge.
Then Scott climbs out of the driver’s side of the giant SUV I’m ogling.
He’s in a suit, like always. No tie. Just a dark suit and a white shirt, muscles straining to be contained by fabric that’s way too soft for him.
That turns me on, too, even as I start to slow-burn at the memory of how we left things between us.
I squirm in my chair and tug the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head. Why does the one guy that makes me want to give up my V-card have to be my sister’s bodyguard?
Why can’t I fall head-over-tits in lust for a football player or a kinky gamer boy?
You know why, a slimy little voice whispers in my head.
I sit up straight. No more squirming. And I’m making a therapy appointment as soon as I’m done studying.
But I don’t look away from Scott. I watch as he glances around, then heads into the townhouse directly across from where I’m sitting.
I feel a momentary spasm of guilt for spying, but it’s not like I sought him out. I was just sitting here, minding my own business, when whatever weirdness he’s up to just happened right in front of me.
I’m completely legit to just sit here and see things.
Which is why I angle my chair away from the window, turn my computer just so, and turn on the camera so I can keep watching him.
Because I’m totally legit. Yeah, right.
My messenger app beeps at me. My friend Corey from the pre-law group wants to know if I’m up for a breakfast study circle.
A: Sure, what time? Can I bring…
I look at the display counter. They have lots of muffins left, and I bet they’ll give them to me at half-price when they close in half an hour.
A: Muffins?
C: You can bring me muffins any time ;)
A: Ew.
C: Sorry. 9:30? McAllister Lounge?
A: Sure. I gotta be done at eleven, have a family thing.
C: Can’t make a joke here about how it pains me to be quick?
A: You could if it would be funny. So… no.
C: I love you
A: I know
C: And a Star Wars reference. You’re the perfect woman.
A: I’m really, really not. ;)
On the other half of the screen, the townhouse door opens, and Scott comes out.
A: Gotta go wash my hair. See you tomorrow.
I close out of both apps and make myself actually read my Poli Sci 407 paper. It’s good, but it could be better. I get lost here and there in pretty words, a trait I’ve inherited from both of my parents. Ever since someone in the writing lab pointed it out in first year, I’ve made it my mission to scrub all of that out of my assignments. It’s one thing for an argument to shine on its merits. It’s another to dress it up to look good, and I hate that with every fiber—
“Alison?”
I jerk my head up, shoving my computer a little as Scott surprises me. Didn’t he get in his car?
Nope. He’s standing right in front of me, and he kind of takes my breath away. Kind of? Ha, more like completely. He wears a suit unlike anyone else. And I’m surrounded by suits all the time. But he’s dynamic, one minute looking like David Gandy on a GQ photo shoot, the next like the Incredible Hulk, ready to burst out of his clothes and take on the world.
But if he’s really a monster, he keeps it under control.
There’s no twenty-foot green rage machine here. Just a six-foot-plus man, but with a capital M.
Scott Mayfair is a Man, and I’m sitting here like a mute idiot, in sweatpants and a hoodie. I’m not even wearing a bra.
And while my brain is stuttering, failing to compute all of that holy unfairness, his obviously has no problem.
He gives me a concerned look. “What are you doing out so late?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m obviously a college student, not a fucking child.
Clearly our last fight didn’t make a strong enough impression, and that has me more pissed than anyone else. “I don't think that's any of your business," I say, and even though I meant it to be bitchy, the ice in my voice surprises me.
“You don't?" He gives me a look that I can't decipher. Part judgment, maybe part derision. I don’t know. I don’t like it.
“No, I don’t. Last I checked, you don’t work for The Horus Group anymore. And even if you did, I’m not one of their clients.”
“You think my concern for you is professional?” His eyes glitter as he leans over. His right hand rests on the back of my chair. His thumb rubs against my shoulder and I can feel it through my sweatshirt. He puts his left hand on the table. He’s right in my face now, and the look isn’t mysterious anymore. He’s mad.
At me.
For studying at eleven thirty at night.
What a fucking asshole.
So I laugh, because I was raised by assholes. Intimidation doesn't work on me. “What do you think you are you doing?"
“Clearing something up."
"And just what is that?"
“My concern for you is incredibly personal. My concern about you being out in the middle of the night is about how you get home, who you go home with, and what you do when you get there. The only answers I like to those questions are safely, nobody, and nothing.”
“You don’t want me to…” I blink up at him. He’s close enough I can see the five o’clock shadow on his jaw and the corded muscles in his neck. “I’m not on a hot date here. Obviously.”
“Why can’t you study at home?”
“There are distractions at home. And why don’t you sit down like a normal person while we have this conversation? Do you need to hulk over me like an oversized bulldog?”
He smirks and straightens up, adjusting his jacket—and his belt, which makes me wonder if anything else needs adjusting, too, but he sits down before I have a chance to check for an erection. He gives me an amused look as he settles into the chair. He’s big and broad, taking up way too much space. One of his knees bumps the table from underneath. The other is dangerously close to rubbing against my leg.
“Here’s the thing.” I tap my finger against my lower lip as I give him a thoughtful look. It’s all very deliberate, of course. After New York, I need to regain the upper hand.
With Scott, I’m perpetually off-balance. That just won’t do.
“The thing?” He grins and leans in. He’s playing with me, too. He knows how good he smells. The bastard.
“You were a jerk to me in New York.”
He nods. “I was.”
I watch his gaze drop to my mouth, which makes me think of kissing him. Does he know his mouth is tugged tight like that? Under tension, because he wants to lean in and kiss me, too?
Eyes up, Ali. “And now you’re being all flirty.”
He jerks his gaze up to meet mine. I gasp, just a little, a squeak of a noise, because yeah, he knows. Pure want burns in his eyes. I know the feeling. “I’m not,” he growls.
“You so are. And you’re a jerk to pretend otherwise.”
“At least I’m consistent.”
“Why?”
He shrugs.
Well, enough of this conversation, then. “Okay. I’m heading home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“Nope, I’m fine.”
I shove my computer into my bag and stand up, making my way to the counter.
He follows, close enough to make the skin at the back of my neck prickle. I like it.
“You guys are closing up at midnight, yeah?” I ask the girl at the counter. She nods. “Can I take the rest of the muffins off your hands?”
“Sure. I’ll give them to you half-off.”
“Thanks!” I say brightly. I ignore Scott while she bags them up, then I stow them in my bag on top of the computer and my notebook.
Then I head for the door. I don’t get more than five feet down the sidewalk before his hand wraps around my jacket sleeve.
“Enough, Ali,” he growls.
I blink at the bark. “Excuse me?”
“Come with me.” He’s pissed, and I should be—I don’t know, scared or something—but I’m not, because his hand grabs mine. His fingers wrap around mine. Scott’s pulling me toward his car, and I’m probably grinning like an idiot.
“Are you going to punish me for being bad?”
“Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“More than you could ever imagine.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I have your full attention. Of course I’m enjoying this.”
“What am I going to do with you?”
“Anything you want.”
He jerks open the back door and gestures for my bag. I slide between him and the SUV and put it down on the back seat, then press against him.
“Stop that.”
“Make me.”
He laughs. “I’m more than you can handle.”
“So you keep saying,” I whisper.
His voice is low, but he doesn’t stumble at all. It should scare me, how confident he is about sex. It doesn’t. I can feel myself getting slick and he hasn’t even said anything dirty yet. “You don’t want me to turn you into my fuck toy.”
Boom. Well, that was dirty. I try and fail not to blush. It might be true that I don’t have any experience with being anyone’s fuck toy, but while maybe I don’t “Netflix and chill”, I watch Netflix. I know that’s not the only option.