When Cindy vacates the room and closes the door behind her, I collapse in the chair at the dressing table.
This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Well, maybe not as stupid as letting the architect of my demise finger-fuck me in a public restaurant—then again, no. No, this is definitely the dumbest ever.
The door opens. My knotted stomach sinks.
Jackson.
In the mirror, he smiles, those dimples peeking out of his perfectly kept stubble. My pulse beats in my panties, but I’m going to ignore that—for my own sanity.
“Hey, beautiful. You ready to win this bet?” He steps behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders.
I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t pretend that you think I’ll win. You said yourself that you won’t buy what I’m selling.”
Reaching around me, he covers the camera with one finger, and then he leans close and whispers in my ear. “All I can think about is how your pussy tastes. What do you say, after your date with what’s-his-face, I’ll come over? You can tell me how he’s falling for you, and I promise you’ll be glad I came.”
I bite my bottom lip. My body is a traitor—probably because my mind is far too imaginative about how he’ll make me happy he came. But, I can’t do that to myself. Or to… wait, what is his name? Donny or David or Dudley? Whatever—it doesn’t matter.
Pushing out of the chair, I brush his hand away. “Sorry, Jack. Just because you have no moral compass, it doesn’t mean I don’t.”
He steps back, and his eyebrows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I lean toward the mirror and wipe an errant eyelash from the corner of my eye. “This guy has no idea what you’re plotting. He’s a normal guy who’s taking a chance on a blind date.”
“So? What’s that got to do with your plans for after the date?”
“I’m not going to leave a date with one man only to hop in the sack with another that same evening.”
He crosses his arms and grins. “So, tomorrow then?”
“Seriously?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. I want to see you. This bet shouldn’t stop you and me from spending some quality time together.”
Quality time? No.
“I’m not made that way, Jackson. I’ll give this guy the same respect I’d give any man I might be interested in. Isn’t that what this is supposed to be about—testing my methods?”
“He won’t have any idea. Besides, this is just a game.”
I poke his chest, pushing him aside. “No. It’s a game to you. To me, it’s my career. To him it’s a date with the potential of becoming more. Besides, he’d know the next time we meet.”
With a disbelieving shake of his head, Jackson says, “And how’s he going to know? Unless you tell him.”
I brush by him on my way out the door. “Chapter Three: Men Are Smarter Than You Think. Small clues and markers in the way I act will tip him off.”
Jack follows me out to my car. “Okay. So—the camera will be on the entire time. I’ll be watching.”
I slam my door and roll down the window. “That seems creepy.”
He leans to rests his forearms on the edge of the open window. “I’m coming over later—whether or not I get to eat dessert.”
“Don’t you have a job?” I push my windblown curls out of my face.
He catches an errant corkscrew and wraps it around his finger, studying it as though it might be the next great find of the twenty-first century. He unwinds it and pats it back in place. “We’re taping the show this afternoon. I’ll be finished before you get home.”
I shift into drive and the car rolls forward. “I might come down with a headache.”
He waves and calls, “I’ll bring aspirin.”
With his strong jaw, athletic build, and those light green eyes, Jackson Tremaine was made for sin.
Sinful thoughts. Sinful desires. Sinful actions.
Good thing Jack’s not my type. Good thing he’s an asshole who would never work long-term for me, or probably anyone. Good thing I can control myself. Otherwise, I’d be in deep shit.
Decode the Man in Your Life
Chapter 4: Men Need Love Too
Correction: Men Need Sex—JUST Sex
FIVE
The agreed-upon guy stands and wipes his palms on his jeans as I enter the cozy Italian restaurant.
“Dave?” I extend my hand.
“You must be Ronnie.” His warm fingers envelope mine in a firm handshake.
The hostess seats us. On the sly, I check my phone for the time. Seven thirty-eight. Wonder if Jackson’s finished taping yet?
No. Doesn’t matter. He has no place at this table, in my head or otherwise. Oh, Lord. Why’d I have to go and think of Jackson at a table. His hands doing naughty things to my naughty parts. I swallow hard.