Man Candy (5 page)

women I met—so determined to put me

in my place. “And what about you?

Boyfriend?”

She snorted, lifting her glass. “No. I

don’t do relationships.”

“And why’s that?”

“I work a ton, I don’t like anything to

interfere with my girl time or my alone

time, and I’m not a good girlfriend.

Every guy I date more than a few times

wants more than I can give.”

“More what? More time? More

emotion? More sex?”

“Let’s go with time and emotion,”

she said, looking me in the eye. “I’m all

for no-strings sex. But like I told you

earlier, I don’t believe in love.”

“Oh, that’s right. You did tell me

that. And is this something you announce

on the first date?”

“
No
, smartass, it isn’t. But I don’t

think it hurts anyone to be honest up front

about where dating me can and cannot

go. So I lay it all out there.”

I nodded, setting my wine glass

aside. “OK, then. Lay it on me.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I want to take you on a

date.”

She made a face. “I’m not going on a

date with
you
.”

“Why not? My mom said I’m a good

catch.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“I don’t want a boyfriend.”

“I said one date.”

Her head tilted and she gave me a

sassy look. “Maybe I’m not attracted to

you.”

Liar. There’s something here and

you know it.
I gave her a slow smile.

“Maybe.”

“So I’m sure you’re not used to

hearing this, but you keep your hands to

yourself. Got it?”

It was a bluff, and I couldn’t resist

calling it.

I moved slowly, closing the space

between us in three steps and caging her

against the fridge with a hand on either

side of her face. My upper body barely

brushed against hers. I stared her down

hard, felt the quick rise and fall of her

chest. “Got it, sweet pea.”

She hesitated, but then lifted her chin

slightly, daring me to kiss her. We stood

like that a few more seconds, each of us

waiting for the other to back down or

give in.

A game of chicken—just like the old

days.

But despite her tempting mouth, I

quickly strategized that kissing her now

would be a mistake. The little minx had

just told me she wasn’t attracted to me—

I couldn’t give her what she wanted yet.

I hadn’t missed what she said about no-

strings sex (and believe me, my dick had

taken that as an invitation and went

looking for his party hat), but I didn’t

want that from her.

I backed off. “Well, thanks for the

drink. This was nice.”

She blinked, her icy facade in a

puddle at her feet. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I should get back downstairs

and finish unpacking.”

“Oh. OK.” She cleared her throat.

“Yeah, that’s good. I actually have some

work to do tonight.”

I walked out of the kitchen, glad she

was behind me and couldn’t see the grin

on my face. In the living room, she

shouldered past me and pulled open the

door. Then she stood behind it like it

was some sort of shield, making it

impossible to even hug her.

“Thanks for the wine. Don’t drink

too much, now.” I gave her ponytail a tug

before heading out the door, like I used

to when she was just Alex’s little sister,

gratified at the annoyed expression it put

on her face.

“You’re welcome,” she snapped,

letting me know I was anything but.

The sound of her door slamming

behind me made me smile even bigger.

She was something else. Feisty as

she was back then and ten times hotter.

I bet she’s a firecracker in bed. I bet

she likes to be on top and call the

shots, which I’d happily allow her to

do, but that also means it would be an

even bigger challenge—and maybe

even more fun—to subdue her.

For a moment my mind wandered to

a place where I had her restrained,

blindfolded, and on her knees.

Jesus.

I had to stop halfway down the stairs

and adjust my pants again.

Back in my apartment, I finished

unpacking and tried to study, but it was

useless—I couldn’t stop thinking about

her. And not just sexual stuff, either.

OK yeah, mostly sexual stuff.

But I didn’t want to just fuck her. She

wasn’t some random girl at a bar in

Prague I’d never see again (although we

had fun that night, didn’t we, Veronika?).

She was someone from my past I felt a

connection with. Someone I wanted to

know better now. Someone who

mattered to me.

Eventually my stomach started

growling, so I went to the store for a few

groceries, and when I got home, I

noticed her living room lights were still

on. I thought about knocking on her door,

inviting her down for chicken Caesar

salad. (“You
have
heard of salad before,

right? It’s, like, lettuce and a few other

delicious, healthy things in a bowl?”)

But I didn’t do it, because I knew

she’d have turned me down. I was pretty

good at reading people, and I had the

feeling Jaime was a woman who liked

things on her own terms, and if you

weren’t willing to meet her terms, you

could fuck right off—especially if your

name was Quinn Rusek.

It made me smile.

I mean, she’d clearly wanted me to

kiss her in the kitchen, if only to prove

that I was the kind of guy who couldn’t

keep my hands to myself.

But the more I thought about it, the

more I was glad I’d backed away. I

could play the long game with her,

especially if the game was chicken.

When I kissed her—and I was going

to kiss her—it was going to be on
my

terms.

I wanted her to come to me and

admit she felt that spark. I wanted her to

give me another chance. I wanted to do

things differently with her.

But first, I wanted to make her sweat

a little.

Then I wanted to make her sweat a

lot.

FIVE

JAIME

I WAS FUMING.

The nerve.

The fucking
nerve
of the guy.

He’d wanted to kiss me, I knew he

had—so why didn’t he do it? Or had I

misread him again? God, why was

Quinn Rusek so hard for me to figure

out? For crying out loud, I had degrees

in psychology and marketing! I made a

living out of studying people and

strategizing how to make them behave a

certain way. I was
good
at it. How did

he have me so off my game?

Now I was even more embarrassed

than I’d been in the first place. Jesus,

this was twice now he’d turned me

down.
Twice!

I flopped facedown on my couch.

I’d been so proud of myself for

playing it nice and cool, then I ruined

everything by trying to get him to kiss

me!

Ugh, he was probably downstairs

laughing his ass off, and up here I was

all hot and bothered by how close he’d

been to me. Even closer than the night of

the doomed seduction, his entire body

grazing against mine.

Holy smoke, his body.

I was dying to know if it would look

as good naked as it appeared in photos.

Did it really have all those ridges and

lines? Was his skin really that smooth

and perfect? He’d been so close I could

smell his soap.

Or maybe that was his hair product.

Yeah, he looked like the kind of guy to

have hair products—pomades and

waxes and gels and pastes—I bet he

spent more time in front of the mirror

than I did.

Whatever it was, he’d smelled good

enough to eat. I’d wanted to take a big

old bite out of him. And I would have

too—that’s what made me even madder.

If he’d have kissed me, I’d have dropped

that wine glass and jumped up on him

like bacon grease hopping off the pan.

We’d probably be fucking each other’s

brains out on the kitchen floor by now,

which sounded like a pretty good time.

So why hadn’t he done it? Was it his

mission in life to torture me? Make me

hot for him only to reject me again? OK

fine, so ten years ago he’d been worried

about crossing the line because of Alex

or my parents or whoever, but what was

his problem tonight?

He doesn’t have a problem. You do.

I howled into the cushion, kicking my

feet and pounding my fists like a toddler

throwing a tantrum. I didn’t care what

Alex said—Quinn Rusek was a sadist.

And this was the last time—
the last time

—I was going to let him make a fool out

of me. No way would I agree to a date

with him.

He’d probably stand me up anyway!

I dragged myself into the kitchen and

poured another glass of wine (well, it

was probably more like two glasses, but

since it fit in a single big glass, I’ll call

it one), then took my laptop into the guest

room where I had my home office set up.

I opened it, but instead of going to client

files, I went right to Quinn’s Instagram

account. His last post was a selfie (of

course, did he take any other kind of

picture?) with the MacArthur Bridge

behind him that looked as if it had been

taken on Belle Isle. Snow blanketed the

ground and chunks of ice floated in the

river, which stood out in the picture

because it was the exact blue of his eyes.

He wore a navy baseball cap with a

white Old English D on the front, and the

caption was just a hashtag:

#BeautifulDetroit.

To the right were all the usual

comments from friends, followers, and

creepers, everything from a gazillion

smiley-faces with hearts for eyes or

blowing heart-kisses to marriage

proposals, actual compliments like
wow

gorgeous pic
, and just plain weird crap

like
do you like helicopter rides?
next

to a banana emoji. Lots of the comments

were not in English, and I wondered if

Quinn had actually picked up any foreign

languages during the last ten years with

all his traveling for work. I wondered

what countries he’d been to, which were

his favorites and why, and where he’d

like to visit again.

But I couldn’t ask him those

questions. Or any questions at all. My

only mission for the next month where

Quinn Rusek was concerned was to

avoid him. Protect my dignity. And if my

curiosity (or my desire) threatened to get

the better of me, as it often did, I’d

remind myself how I’d felt the night of

the graduation party—rejected, ashamed,

foolish. Since then, I’d been lied to,

cheated on, and taken advantage of, but

I’d never felt as heartbroken as I had the

night Quinn turned me down. Why

should I invite him to hurt me again?

Because he would. I knew he would.

They always do.

Don’t be drunk and depressing. Get

to work.

After a big gulp of wine to fortify my

strength, I closed out of Instagram

without even scrolling down (I deserved

a medal) and opened my work files,

looking over my notes from a meeting

I’d had with a new client this afternoon.

My task was to create some content

ideas that would increase brand

awareness and grow potential customer

engagement—pretty standard stuff.

But it was impossible to concentrate

knowing he was right beneath me. Every

noise had me wondering.

What was that thump? Did he drop

something?

I hear hangers on the closet rod in

the guest room down there. I bet he has

so many clothes he needs two closets.

Total peacock.
(Never mind that I used

two full closets too.)

Rod. Now I wonder what his rod is

like.

Was that the front door closing?

Where’s he going?

He’s back. Wonder if he got dinner.

I’m hungry.

The toilet just flushed. Great, now

I’m thinking about his rod again.

His bedroom TV is on. Wonder what

he likes to watch at night. What if it’s

porn?
(That thought intrigued me so

much, I went into my bedroom, lay down

on the floor and pressed my ear to the

hardwood.)

Nope. He’s catching up on Game of

Thrones. Bummer. But also cool,

because GoT is awesome. Wonder who

his favorite character is.
For a moment, I entertained a little fantasy about the

two of us watching together, maybe even

sitting on the couch, with a pizza and a

bottle of wine on the table.