Archer and Ivy together though? The idea still blows my mind, and they’ve been a couple for a while now. Hell, he’s so in love with her, he’s going to marry her.
It’s pretty amazing, seeing what the love of a good woman will do to a guy.
Not that I’m looking for anything like that—hell no. Not yet. I’m too damn busy to pay a needy woman any mind.
Fuck around with one, specifically one as hot as Marina? Yeah, I’m on board with that.
Here come my asshole tendencies again. Showing themselves front and center.
“Tell Ivy to not ask Marina a lot of questions, okay?” I request.
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s just . . . she’ll be curious and want to know more about this woman I’m dating. And it’s nothing. It’s not really serious, on my part or Marina’s part. I’m trying to talk to her dad. She’s trying to talk to you. We’re using each other,” I explain, hoping like hell that’s the truth. If Ivy and Marina start talking and become friends, that would be awful. I don’t want to hurt Marina’s feelings, but this has to be nothing serious for me.
Despite how amazing the sex had been between us, it can’t matter. We’re just having fun. Gaining something from each other. She has to know or at least assume I’m talking to her because of the connection with her dad. This makes me feel like an asshole because damn it, I like her. Despite her not liking me, I’m drawn to her like I can’t help myself.
Because yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s not serious for her. One night of sex. Tonight, just a dinner. A chance to speak to Archer and get to know him better. Hell, she can barely tolerate me. Most of the time, she provokes me enough that I end up making an ass of myself and saying something stupid to piss her off. Being with her doesn’t bring out my finer qualities . . .
Except when I’m buried inside her and making her come. Then all is good in the world. All is right.
Yeah. We’ll go to dinner, we’ll both get what we want and then we’re done. Nice and simple.
Just the way I like it.
Marina
“DARLING, WHAT IN the world are you doing?”
I poke my head out of my walk-in closet at the sound of my mom’s horrified voice. She’s standing in the middle of my bedroom, her eyes wide with shock as she takes in the disaster. My clothes are strewn everywhere. All over the floor, the bed, thrown over the chair that sits in the corner closest to the closet.
It’s a pre-date war zone, and so far I’m losing the battle.
“Looking for something to wear.” I get up off the floor and stand, wiping my hands on my thighs. “I have nothing.”
She’s still glancing about the room, checking out all the items of clothing lying everywhere, I’m sure. “I beg to differ. I had no idea you were hoarding that many clothes in your tiny closet.”
Funny how it’s my “tiny” closet. It’s your standard-size master bedroom walk-in. Hers puts mine to shame. It’s like an entire room, with an island in the center full of drawers where she organizes her bras and underwear. Lit racks line the wall, showing off her beautiful shoe and bag collections. My father had the closet rebuilt for her about twelve years ago. I remember being in total awe. I’d never seen anything like it.
Then I went on to have friends in high school whose mothers had even bigger closets than my mom. Talk about putting us to shame.
“Fine. I have nothing that I like,” I stress, throwing my hands up in the air. “I need to go shopping.”
“What for? Where are you going that you’re so worried over how you look? You always dress so nicely, darling, except when you’re working, but what can we expect? Not like you can dress up to dole out pastries and coffee.” She smiles, completely oblivious to how she just completely insulted what I do for a living.
She does that all the time and it’s irritating. Even a little hurtful, though I try to tell myself to get over it. But my mom has zero respect for my job or my business, and I don’t understand why. I’m actually doing something with my life, but she doesn’t even see it.
“I’m going out tonight.”
“Oh?” Mom sounds casual but everything else about her demeanor perks up. Great. “And who are you going out with? Anyone we know?”
I really don’t want to tell her where or with whom. She’s going to jump to conclusions when she hears I’m going out with a guy and it’s nothing like that.
“No one special. And no, I don’t think you know him.” I shrug, moving over to my dresser. Kneeling down, I tug open the bottom drawer and flip through my jeans, finally pulling out my absolute favorite. They’re a dark rinse, skinny fit without being skintight, and they make my legs look long when they’re really not. “No need to make a big deal about it.”